The 
Lucky  Seven 


The 

Lucky  Seven 

by 
John  Taintor  Foote 

Author  of 
"Dvmb-bcll  of  Brookfield,"  "The  Look  of  Eagles,"  etc. 


D.  Appleton  and  Company 

New  York  London 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1915, 1916,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 

1916,  by  The  Mcdure  Publications,  Inc. 

1917,  by  Harper's  Bazar,  Inc. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAOE 

I.  BOLTERS 1 

II.   OPUS  43,  NUMBER  6       105 

III.  GOLDIE  MAY  AND  THE  FAITHFUL  SERVANT  133 

IV.  RED  Fox  FURS 175 

V.  AUGUSTA'S  BRIDGE 207 

VI.  A  CAKE  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  ROUND  .  253 

VII.  OLD  PASTURES                                             ,  281 


2018939 


I 

BOLTEBS 


I 

BOLTERS 


I  HAVE  just  finished  reading  Loeb  on 
"Biological  Inference."  He  has  given 
me  a  headache  and  hurt  my  pride.  He  has 
told  me  that  I  am  not  "the  captain  of  my 
soul."  I  am  merely  the  plaything  of  heredity. 
My  habits  of  mind  and  body  are  the  prompt- 
ings of  remorseless  protoplasms  which  are  mov- 
ing me  unswervingly  to  my  appointed  destiny. 
Although  this  scientific  conclusion  has  left 
me  shaken  and  dejected,  it  explains  many 
things.  It  explains  why  the  Japanese — an 
acute  and  practical  people — worship  their 
ancestors.  It  explains  Mary's  Mary — I  have 
never  understood  Mary's  Mary  until  now. 
It  explains  old  Mr.  Trescott  in  the  double 
r61e  of  dog-breeder  and  prophet.  It  explains, 
quite  clearly,  the  "Institution" — a  place  of 
3 


The  Lucky  Seven 


linoleum  floors,  men  nurses  and  ten  o'clock 
hypodermics — where  I  sometimes  go  to  spend 
an  hour  with  what  is  left  of  Andrew  Day. 

I  do  not  begrudge  this  hour.  Andrew 
always  knows  me,  and  although  he  began  by 
being  "queer"  he  is,  or  rather  was,  a  genius. 
It  is  only  within  the  past  year  that  he  has 
been  proclaimed  a  genius  in  his  own  hap- 
hazard land.  His  queerness  we  accepted  long 
ago.  He  proclaimed  it  in  the  basement  of  the 
First  Presbyterian  Church  on  the  corner  of 
Vine  and  Sugar  streets  in  the  town  where  he 
was  born. 

At  that  time  Andrew  was  known  as  "the 
Day  boy,"  his  father  being  Roscoe  Day,  who 
fished  the  Cheegoma  in  summer,  wrote  poetry 
which  no  one  ever  saw  in  the  winter,  and  was 
a  drunken  dreamer  at  all  seasons. 

Andrew,  as  I  remember,  was  eight  years  old 
when  a  gentleman  with  a  white  string  tie 
came  to  town  and  established  himself  in  a 
"tabernacle"  erected  on  the  court-house  lawn. 
The  gentleman  of  the  spotless  neckwear  re- 
mained three  weeks.  He  had  an  intimateknowl- 
4 


Bolters 


edge  of  the  Deity's  intent  and  spoke  with  as- 
surance of  his  Maker's  predilection  for  hell-fire. 

During  the  general  soul-saving  which  fol- 
lowed, a  feminine  committee  waited  on  An- 
drew's father  to  urge  that  his  motherless  son 
take  the  first  steps  toward  an  escape  from  the 
ultimate  flames.  It  was  a  bright  Sunday 
morning.  Roscoe  Day  was  about  to  leave 
his  home  with  a  fishing-rod  in  his  hand,  a 
volume  of  Keats  in  his  pocket  and  the  odor 
of  whisky  on  his  breath. 

"Sunday-school?"  he  said  when  his  visitors 
had  explained  their  errand.  "Why,  yes — if 
he  wants  to  go.  It  can  do  him  no  harm."  He 
waved  his  fishing-rod  politely  and  departed 
for  his  beloved  river.  .  .  .  The  committee 
found  Andrew  deep  in  a  faded  red  hammock 
and  "Vanity  Fair." 

Two  hours  later  the  younger  of  the  Miss 
Felloes — the  one  with  eyes  like  a  Jersey 
heifer — the  one  who  afterward  ran  away 
with  the  man  who  sold  cleaning-fluid — read 
aloud  the  story  of  Samson  and  the  pillars  of 
the  temple. 

5 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"And  now,"  said  she,  conscious  of  a  new 
lamb  in  the  fold,  "what  lesson  do  we  learn  from 
Samson?  Who  gave  him  his  great  strength? 
You  tell  us,  Andrew." 

"The  man  who  wrote  the  book,"  said 
Andrew  promptly. 

"Why,  Andrew/God  wrote  the  book!" 

Andrew  passed  a  horseshoe  figured  sleeve 
across  his  sweating  countenance,  tugged  at 
his  wide  white  collar,  dropped  his  eyes  and 
discovered  a  hole  in  the  knee  of  his  stocking. 

"Andrew,  God  wrote  the  book!" 

Andrew  looked  up.  "I  don't  believe  it,"  he 
announced. 

There  were  startled  rustlings  all  about  him 
followed  by  a  terrible  silence.  The  limpid 
eyes  into  which  he  glared  wavered  for  an 
instant,  then  poured  on  him  a  soft,  sad 
look. 

"What  you  have  said  is  very,  very  wicked. 
.  .  .  Why  did  you  say  it?" 

Andrew  chewed  at  a  warty  knuckle.  A 
return  to  the  fold  was  easy.  It  required 
only  an  abashed  mumble.  Then  a  sudden 
6 


Bolters 


rush  of  conviction  came  and  carried  him 
along. 

"Because,"  he  almost  screamed,  "God  is 
not  a  liar!" 

When  Sunday-school  was  over,  Andrew  be- 
came the  centre  of  a  fascinated  circle. 

"He  don't  believe  in  God!  He  don't  be- 
lieve in  God!" 

"I  never  said  it,"  shrieked  Andrew.  "I 
said  he  didn't  write  the  book."  They  only 
edged  away  from  him  at  this,  fearing  a  bolt 
from  the  cloudless  summer  sky. 

It  was  understood  from  then  on  that  An- 
drew,! like  his  father,  was  queer. 

As  he  grew  older  this  opinion  was  not 
altered.  Andrew  became  a  tall,  frank-eyed, 
tow-headed  stripling,  with  a  serious  manner 
and  an  astonishing  command  of  English  when 
he  chose  to  express  himself. 

In  a  community  where  the  young  people 
shrieked  with  unaccountable  laughter,  or 
chattered  in  words  of  one  or  two  syllables 
interlarded  with  the  slang  of  the  day,  An- 
drew's more  restrained  manner  and  larger 
7 


The  Lucky  Seven 


vocabulary  were  his  downfall.  He  was  not 
only  queer,  but  "different,"  and  that  is  an 
unpardonable  offense. 

So  while  those  of  his  own  age  were  in- 
dulging in  the  hundred  and  one  inconse- 
quential joys  of  adolescence,  Andrew,  when 
he  did  not  go  fishing  with  his  father,  took 
himself  to  the  unfurnished  tower-room  of  the 
public  library,  from  which  point  one  can  look 
down  omnipotently  on  shingled  roofs  and 
red  brick  chimneys,  or  stare  into  far  but 
companionable  skies. 

What  he  did  in  the  tower-room  no  one 
climbed  the  unlighted,  dusty  stairs  to  find 
out.  Presumably  he  read,  as  he  always  se- 
cured a  book  or  two  from  Miss  Angelica 
Judson,  the  withered  librarian,  before  stealing 
to  soundless  heights  above. 

One  day  he  asked  her  for  a  rickety  table 
which  he  had  discovered  in  the  library  cellar. 
This  and  an  empty  beer  case,  which  would  serve 
for  a  seat,  he  dragged  up  to  his  retreat. 
Shortly  thereafter  a  series  of  letters  signed 
"Spectator"  began  to  appear  in  the  column 
8 


Bolters 


of  the  Gazette  devoted  to  "Communications 
from  Our  Readers." 

They  were  distressing  epistles.  They  tilted 
at  idols  with  disconcerting  irreverence  and 
knocked  boldly  at  whited  sepulchres.  They 
were  filled  with  uncomfortable  truths,  philo- 
sophical quotations  and  a  passionate  scorn  of 
hypocrisy.  When  the  source  of  these  out- 
pourings was  traced  to  the  tower-room  of  the 
library,  Andrew  was  called  "that  whipper- 
snapper"  in  high  places,  but  was  rewarded 
by  a  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  old  Mr.  Trescott, 
president  of  the  Farmers'  and  Merchants' 
National  Bank,  who  lived  with  his  dogs  at 
Maple  Hill,  read  Turgenev  and  was  a  law  unto 
himself. 

The  twinkle  grew  into  substance  when 
Roscoe  Day  drank  up,  or  rather  down,  the 
last  acre  of  the  Day  estate  and  crumpled 
suddenly  in  a  wicker  chair,  with  his  head 
hanging  over  the  arm  and  his  mouth  gaping 
thirstily.  He  left  a  dozen  fishing-rods,  three 
hundred  unsalable  poems  and  a  forlorn  An- 
drew who  had  cared  shyly  for  this  befud- 
9 


The  Lucky  Seven 


died  dreamer  of  dreams,  in  or  out  of  his 
cups. 

Andrew  saw  the  home  that  had  been  his 
sold  with  its  furnishings  to  pay  debts,  and 
found  himself,  lonely  to  the  marrow  of  his 
bones,  occupying  a  room  in  the  new  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  building. 

There  was  a  vacancy  at  that  time  in  the 
Farmers'  and  Merchants'  National.  Eldridge 
Potter,  who  sold  tickets  for  the  church  fair 
and  had  solicited  subscriptions  for  the  very 
building  Andrew  now  called  home,  was  the 
favored  candidate.  Orthodoxy  was  thought 
by  many  to  be  essential  for  a  banking  career; 
the  handling  of  religious  funds  an  ideal  ap- 
prenticeship. Andrew  nevertheless  took  his 
courage  and  his  pen  in  hand  and  wrote  a 
letter.  It  was  received  that  same  afternoon 
by  old  Mr.  Trescott,  who  nodded  several 
times  while  reading  it  and  sent  its  author  a 
request  to  call  the  following  day. 

"You  have  a  three  thousand  dollar  equity 
in  your  mother's  estate,"  he  began  abruptly 
when  Andrew  stood  before  him.  "You  write 
10 


Bolters 


a  remarkable  letter.     Why  don't  you  go  to 
college?" 

"I  don't  feel  that  I  need  it,"  said  Andrew. 

"Indeed!" 

Andrew  flushed.  "I  mean,"  said  he,  "I 
need  the  money  more.  I  think  education  is 
more  a  matter  of  reading  than  anything 
else." 

"Not  Latin  and  Greek,  eh?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Andrew. 

Mr.  Trescott  stared  through  the  wide  plate- 
glass  windows  at  a  dismal  line  of  dust-washed 
buggies  hitched  at  the  curb. 

"You  remind  me  of  your  grandfather,"  he 
said  at  last.  "He  was  called  a  free-thinker 
in  those  days.  I  remember  him  best  at  a  big 
Chinese  punch-bowl.  I've  had  many  a  glass 
out  of  that  punch-bowl.  He  took  a  glass 
with  all  who  came."  Mr.  Trescott  turned 
suddenly  on  Andrew.  "Do  you  drink?" 

"No,  sir." 

"I  wouldn't — if  I  were  you." 

Andrew  grew  scarlet  to  his  eyes.    "I  never 
shall,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
11 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Good,"  said  Mr.  Trescott.  "You  may 
begin  work  here  on  Monday  at  eight 
o'clock." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Andrew. 

"You  may  come  to  Maple  Hill  evenings 
and  read  in  the  library.  Come  in  the  side 
entrance  and  leave  the  same  way.  Don't 
ring  the  bell." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Andrew. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  the  dogs.  They'll 
bluff  a  little  until  they  know  you.  Pointers 
don't  bite." 

"I'll  bear  that  in  mind,"  said  Andrew, 
smiling. 

"Turgenev  is  in  the  east  corner,  between 
Tolstoy  and  Maupassant." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Andrew.  "I'll  get 
acquainted  with  him." 

"Both  in  the  original  and  in  English." 

"Of  course  I  can't  read  him  in  the  original," 
said]Andrew. 

"Neither  can  I,"  said  old  Mr.  Trescott, 
sighing. 

I  think  I  know  why  Andrew  wrote  the  letter 
12 


Bolters 


that  was  to  bow  his  tow  head  for  such  a 
dreary  waste  of  days  above  a  big  red  ledger. 
He  had  turned  blindly  in  a  despairing  hour 
to  the  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  old  Mr.  Trescott. 
But  why  he  continued  thereafter  to  curl  his 
defiant  legs  about  the  tall  stool  in  the  counting- 
room  of  the  Farmers'  and  Merchants' National, 
which  should  have  been  graced  by  the  plumper 
person  of  Eldridge  Potter,  is  a  mystery  which 
leaves  me  dumb. 

He  must  have  known  almost  at  once  that 
the  business  of  banking*  was  not  for  him.  And 
yet  he  persisted  in  'giving  most  of  his  daylight 
hours  to  columns  of  figures,  dust-dry,  bone- 
stale,  terrible  as  a  beating  to  an  imagination 
that  could  soar  star-high,  plunge  ocean-deep, 
or  wander  world-wide. 

His  nights,  of  course,  were  his  own.  He 
attempted  a  fair  division  of  them.  The  first 
half  was  to  be  given  to  his  books.  At  twelve 
o'clock  he  would  go  dreaming  to  his  bed — 
this  was  in  theory.  In  practice  he  cheated 
the  pillows  outrageously.  Until  one — two — 
three,  he  sometimes  read,  to  slip  out  into  a 
13 


The  Lucky  Seven 


world  grown  grey  with  the  promise  of  more 
columns  of  figures. 

He  would  slink  homeward  then,  calling 
himself  hard  names,  accompanied  part  of  the 
way  by  one  or  two  of  the  pointers,  who  had 
only  bluffed,  as  Mr.  Trescott  had  promised, 
and  now  stuck  cold,  friendly  noses  against 
his  hands,  or  bounded  away  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  follow  them  to  distant  fields. 

Andrew  would  whistle  them  back,  send 
them  home,  and  resolve,  as  he  pulled  down 
his  window-shade  and  shut  out  the  accusing 
light,  to  heed  the  faithful  chimes  of  the  black 
marble  clock,  which  spoke  at  intervals  in  the 
shadow-filled  library  at  Maple  Hill. 

On  Sundays  he  took  one  of  his  father's  rods 
and  searched  for  his  father's  spirit  along  the 
pools  and  shallows  of  the  Cheegoma.  A  black 
bass  in  that  stream  gives  himself  to  a  trium- 
phant wariness.  He  waves  a  scornful  tail  and 
flashes  under  a  rooty  bank  at  the  first  hulking 
shadow  on  the  water.  Andrew,  listening  for 
a  voice  at  each  quiet  bend,  followed  the  river 
listlessly  and  came  home  fishless.  Then  an 
14 


Bolters 


inadvertent  dribble  of  a  minnow  into  the 
green  mystery  of  a  deepish  riffle  kept  his  rod 
bowed  for  ten  wonderful  minutes  and  banished 
introspection  until  the  sun  went  down. 

A  month  later  and  he  was  slipping,  eager- 
eyed,  from  one  good  piece  of  water  to  the 
next,  his  soul  filled  with  the  lustful  cunning  of 
the  otter. 

And  so  he  fished  and  read  and  ground  his 
teeth  above  his  ledger,  a  part  of,  but  apart 
from,  the  rest  of  us — for  he  was  different 
beyond  a  doubt. 

Then  one  icy  morning  Miss  Netty  Felloes, 
who  was  late  to  church,  slipped  and  fell  and 
broke  her  hand.  It  mended  after  a  time, 
with  all  the  fingers  stiff,  and  sewing,  fine  or 
otherwise,  out  of  the  question.  As  Miss 
Felloes  gazed  at  it  one  evening,  the  hunted 
look  which  always  lurked  in  her  eyes  grew 
more  noticeable.  She  turned  to  see  if  a  grey 
paw  was  already  stealing  under  the  door. 

Quite  unexpectedly  the  door-bell  rang.  She 
sat  for  a  moment,  unaccountably  terrified, 
while  the  rusty  bell-handle  creaked  once  more 
15 


The  Lucky  Seven 


and  the  bell  clattered  again.  At  last  she 
threw  back  the  bolt  and  opened  the  door,  her 
injured  hand  clutched  at  her  breast.  Nothing 
came  in,  however,  but  old  Mr.  Trescott,  who 
bowed,  cleared  his  throat  and  said: 

"I'm  getting  old.  Those  niggers  will  be 
the  death  of  me.  I  need  a  housekeeper. 
.  .  .  You  see?" 

The  hunted  look  left  Netty  Felloes's  eyes. 
She  sat  down  on  the  horsehair  sofa  in  the 
hall  and  covered  them  with  her  hands. 

"Won't  people— talk?"  said  she,  at  last. 

A  doll,  lying  face  up  on  a  curving  arm  of 
the  sofa,  seemed  to  stare  in  even  wider 
amazement  at  old  Mr.  Trescott's  reply. 

Miss  Felloes  laughed,  softly  to  be  sure,  but 
still  she  laughed,  and  this  is  noteworthy. 
"You've  shocked  Prudence  Angelica,"  she 
said.  Then  the  laugh  died  a-borning.  "And 
Mary's  Mary,"  she  asked,  "you  mean  Mary's 
Mary  too?" 

"Your  sister's  child?" 

"Yes,"  she  admitted  slowly,  "Mary  was 
her  mother." 

16 


Bolters 


"Ah,"  said  old  Mr.  Trescott  doubtfully,  and 
saw  the  hunted  look  return.  "Yes,  yes,"  he 
said,  "yes,  yes.  Of  course  I  mean — whatever 
you  call  her." 

Three  nights  later  Andrew  let  himself  in 
through  the  side  door  of  Maple  Hill.  He 
had  been  unable  to  decide  whether  George 
Meredith  was  a  great  novelist  or  a  great  man 
writing  novels.  "The  Egoist"  was  to  settle 
it.  Andrew  was  stretching  out  his  hand  to 
that  fat  volume,  when  he  paused. 

"Oh,  hello!"  he  said.  When  he  saw  that 
the  still  figure  in  the  corner  was  a  girl,  he 
frowned.  What  was  she  doing  in  his  library? 

What  she  was  doing  was  obvious.  She 
was  sitting  in  the  Scott  and  Dickens  corner 
reading.  Or  rather  she  had  been  reading. 
Just  now  her  book  was  neglected,  as  she 
looked  at  Andrew  through  impressive  spec- 
tacles. 

She  herself  was  not  at  all  impressive.  She 
was  at  the  unimpressive  age.  She  was  gang- 
ly— she  should  have  been  giggly,  but  wasn't. 
Her  nose  and  mouth  and  chin  were  small. 
17 


The  Lucky  Seven 


They  retreated  with  hardly  a  struggle,  leaving 
the  field  to  the  more  aggressive  spectacles. 

One  leg  was  curled  under  her*  The  other 
dangled  and  was  long  and  thin.  Her  eyes 
promised  faintly  what  the  next  few  years 
would  do;  but  here  again  the  spectacles  more 
than  held  their  own.  In  wondering  why  they 
were  so  big  and  round  and  shiny,  one  forgot 
the  eyes  behind  them.  A  large  flaxen-haired 
doll  shared  the  chair  with  her.  It  was  sitting 
bolt  upright,  supported  by  the  crook  of  her 
left  arm. 

"Why  do  you  carry  that  thing?"  Andrew 
asked  abruptly. 

The  girl  tightened  her  arm  about  the  doll. 

"She  is  my  friend,"  she  explained.  "I 
talk  to  her." 

"A  nut,"  thought  Andrew.  He  got  out 
"The  Egoist"  and  took  his  usual  chair  by 
the  centre  table.  In  another  moment  he  was 
wondering  why  Sir  Willoughby's  calves  were 
thought  worthy  of  such  minute  description. 
Then  the  "gulf  of  a  caress"  scene  swept  him 
to  heights  and — "Big  work!"  he  muttered, 
18 


Bolters 


"enormously  big."  ....  When  he  closed 
his  book  at  midnight  the  girl  with  the  doll 
and  spectacles  had  gone. 

She  was  in  the  same  corner,  though,  the 
following  night.  The  doll  was  sitting  in  the 
chair  beside  her.  Its  rigid  eyes  were  fixed 
on  Andrew  as  he  took  his  seat. 

"Huh!"  he  said,  and  plunged  into  "The 
Return  of  the  Native."  If  "The  Egoist" 
could  stand  comparison  with  this,  then  its  high 
place  was  sure.  He  found  that  it  could  not. 
The  first  chapter  was  enough  to  decide  him. 
Beside  this  pure  crystal,  Meredith  was  tortu- 
ous and  opaque.  Andrew  closed  the  book, 
half  closed  his  eyes  and  concentrated  in  an 
effort  to  see,  to  feel  how  such  a  wonder  in 
words  could  be  wrought.  His  mind  fell  back, 
dazed  from  its  struggle  to  find  a  tiny  crevasse 
in  the  smooth  wall  of  prose  which  might  be 
pried  at  in  search  of  the  builder's  method. 
At  last  he  shook  his  head  and  walked  over 
to  the  book-case. 

His  attention  was  caught  by  the  gleam  of 
spectacles  turned  his  way.  The  light  was 
19 


The  Lucky  Seven 


diverted  from  the  lenses  by  a  movement  of 
the  girl's  head,  and  Andrew  met  her  eyes. 
They  were  large  and  dark.  They  were  staring 
at  him  thoughtfully.  They  did  not  waver  as 
he  met  them,  and  it  seemed  necessary  to 
speak. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Sixteen— nearly." 

Andrew  glanced  at  the  doll.     "What  are 
you  reading?"  he  inquired. 

"  'Barnaby  Rudge,'  "  said  the  girl.     "I've 
read  it  before." 

"Do  you  like  Dickens?" 

"I  love  him,"  said  the  girl. 

"Why?" 

"There  are  so  many  people." 

"Too  many,"  said  Andrew. 

"Don't  you  like  people?" 

"No,"  said  Andrew  shortly,  and  picked  out 
his  reference  book. 

She  gave  him  a  startled  glance.     "I'd  love 
people,  if  I  knew  them." 

"No,"  said  Andrew,  "you  wouldn't — if  you 
knew  them." 

20 


Bolters 


Later  he  murmured  absently  at  her  faint 
good  night,  and  later  still  he  wondered  vaguely 
who  she  was  and  what  she  had  meant  by 
loving  people,  if  she  knew  them,  and  why  she 
was  in  the  library  at  all. 

A  week  later  he  learned  all  this.  The  bal- 
ance was  out  at  closing  time  and  a  missing 
sixteen  cents  led  him  a  weary  chase  down 
blurred  and  dancing  columns.  His  eyes  hurt 
him  that  night,  and  when  the  girl  with  the 
spectacles  came  silently  into  the  library  he 
lowered  his  book  and  nodded  to  her.  He  saw 
that  she  was  without  her  doll. 

"Where  is  your  friend?"  he  asked.  "You 
haven't  had  a  falling  out?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said,  "but 
I've  put  her  away." 

"Not  for  good!" 

"Yes,  for  good;  she  won't  do  any  longer. 
She's  been  everything,  poor  dear,  but  now — " 
She  stopped  abruptly  and  Andrew  saw  big 
slow  tears  well  up  behind  the  spectacles  and 
steal  down  toward  a  quivering  chin. 

Anything  in  pain,  anything  in  trouble,  tore 
21 


The  Lucky  Seven 


at  Andrew's  vitals.  Even  these  silly  tears 
moved  him.  He  wished  the  girl  with  the 
spectacles  had  not  come  in  that  evening. 
But  since  she  was  here,  and  crying!  ...  He 
put  his  book  on  the  table  and  laughed  cheer- 
fully. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  "you  are  too  old 
for  dolls  anyway,  don't  you  think? — and  too 
old  to  cry  about  them,  that's  certain." 

"It  isn't  the  doll,"  said  the  girl  with  the 
spectacles. 

"What  is  it  then?"  asked  Andrew. 

"It's  because  I  haven't  a  friend  to  take  her 
place — not  a  single  friend." 

"Why  not?"  said  Andrew. 

"I  don't  know — exactly.  Aunt  Netty 
knows — even  Mr.  Trescott  knows — I  can  tell 
by  the  way  he  looks  at  me.  Other  people 
know.  I've  thought  they  must,  or  they 
wouldn't  call  the  children  in.  Perhaps  you 
know — do  you?" 

"And  what's  all  this?"  thought  Andrew. 
"No,  I  don't  know,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  don't 
know  your  name.    What  is  your  name?" 
22 


Bolters 


"Mary,"  said  the  girl.  "Aunt  Netty  calls 
me  Mary's  Mary." 

"What's  your  last  name — what's  your  full 
name?" 

"Felloes— Mary  Felloes." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Andrew,  with  an  indrawn 
breath,  for  now  he  knew.  He  remembered 
what  an  astounding  thing  it  had  been.  At 
first,  when  the  other  boys  discussed  it,  he  had 
not  believed.  Then  he  had  heard  older  people 
talking,  and  gradually  he  was  convinced  that 
it  was  possible  for  a  Sunday-school  teacher  to 
be  as  wicked  as  any  one  else.  She  had  tried 
to  teach  him  lies,  to  be  sure,  but  she  believed 
them.  That  was  a  weakness  of  hers.  She 
had  believed  the  lies  of  the  cleaning-fluid  man, 
who,  with  a  wife  in  Kansas  City,  had  talked 
of  deathless  love.  She  had  gone  away  with 
him,  "never  to  return,"  so  the  letter  she  left 
had  said. 

She   was   mistaken   about   this,   however. 

Before  a  year  had  passed,   the  other  Miss 

Felloes,  Miss  Netty  Felloes,  went  away  as 

secretly    as    her    sister.      Hardle's    wooden- 

23 


The  Lucky  Seven 


tasseled  hearse  met  the  north-bound  evening 
train  a  few  days  later.  Long  before  Hardle 
and  his  assistant  and  the  baggage-man  had 
got  a  wooden  box  into  the  hearse,  Miss  Netty 
Felloes  had  slipped  from  the  last  car,  fever- 
eyed  and  chalk-white.  She  carried  something 
wrapped  in  a  silk  quilt,  which  lifted  its  voice 
in  a  small  wail  as  Miss  Felloes  hurried  down 
the  platform. 

For  the  next  year  or  so  the  milkman  brought 
two  quarts  of  milk  each  day  to  the  back  door 
of  the  rambling  white  house  built  by  Ebenezer 
Felloes  sixty  years  before.  As  for  the  front 
door,  from  then  on  it  was  closed  as  tightly  as 
the  faded  green  shutters  which  were  opened 
not  at  all. 

Andrew  had  forgotten  these  things.  Now 
they  came  sweeping  over  him  like  a  tide. 
And  so  they  called  the  children  in!  Yes, 
that  would  be  like  them!  And  she  was 
sixteen  nearly,  and  the  doll  would  do  no 
longer. 

Andrew  crossed  the  room  to  the  Scott  and 
Dickens  corner.  He  lifted  a  quivering  chin, 
24 


Bolters 


and  looked  down  through  the  spectacles  into 
swimming  eyes. 

"I'm  glad  she's  gone,"  he  said.  "I'm  going 
to  take  her  place.  I'm  going  to  be  your  friend 
now." 

"Not  really  and  truly?"  gasped  Mary's 
Mary. 

"Yes,"  said  Andrew,  "really  and  truly. 
Let's  see,  this  is  Saturday,  isn't  it?  Suppose 
we  go  fishing  to-morrow." 

Mary's  Mary  danced  for  a  moment,  clap- 
ping her  hands,  then  flew  to  Aunt  Netty, 
who  entered  the  library  presently  and  spoke 
of  Sabbath-breaking. 

Andrew  undermined  orthodoxy  in  a  ten- 
minute  speech.  "You'll  admit  the  Lord  ar- 
ranges everything?"  he  wound  up. 

Miss  Felloes  nodded  helplessly. 

"Well,  Sunday  is  my  only  day,"  said 
Andrew,  "and  he's  responsible." 

"You  don't  have  to  go  fishing,  do  you?" 

"After  six  days  in  the  bank?"  exclaimed 
Andrew.  Then  added  piously,  "The  Lord 
knows  I  do." 

25 


The  Lucky  Seven 


When  he  set  off  next  morning,  the  back 
pasture  was  still  smoking  with  mist  and  silver- 
bright  with  dew. 

Andrew,  with  his  rod  and  tackle-box  in 
one  hand  and  his  minnow  seine  across  his 
shoulders,  strode  along,  avoiding  thistles 
and  hoping  for  a  still  day.  Just  behind  him, 
with  a  neat  package  of  lunch  and  his 
dented  minnow  bucket,  was  Mary's  Mary. 
The  rising  sun  smote  her  spectacles  into 
flame  and  forced  her  to  squint  her  eyes;  but 
it  could  not  outshine  the  blissful  look  which 
filled  them  as  they  fastened  themselves  stead- 
fastly on  the  unconscious  back  of  her 
"friend." 

Two  hours  were  devoted  to  bait-catching. 
Mary's  Mary  learned  that  "soft  craws"  were 
almost  as  difficult  to  come  at  as  the  bass  to 
whom  they  proved  irresistible.  It  required  the 
turning  over  of  innumerable  stones  and  cat- 
like pounces,  when  a  shell-less  crayfish  drifted, 
helpless,  in  the  current  as  his  sanctuary  was 
withdrawn.  If  he  darted  tail  on  for  another 
stone,  he  had  not  "peeled"  as  yet,  and  was  a 
26 


Bolters 


hard,  forbidding,  non-succulent  creature  with 
serviceable  claws. 

"Why,"  asked  Mary's  Mary,  observing  the 
unique  method  of  locomotion  employed  by  the 
crayfish,  "do  they  always  go  backward?" 

"Why,"  asked  Andrew  bending  above  a 
stone,  "do  you  always  go  frontward?" 

Mary's  Mary  remained  silent.  She  was  to 
learn  before  the  summer  was  over  that  her 
friend  could  ask  unanswerable  questions  about 
the  simplest  things. 

Later  she  committed  a  terrible  offense. 
Andrew,  waist-deep  in  cool  green  water,  cast 
into  the  eddy  below  a  submerged  log  and 
brought  a  fiercely  rushing  bass  clear  of 
tangled  roots  and  safe  to  bank.  He  waded 
out  again  and  stood  moveless  for  long  minutes, 
while  a  deep  quiet,  in  which  only  the  river 
gurgled  drowsily,  settled  down. 

Mary's  Mary  watched  a  kingfisher  dart 
from  a  dead  limb  into  a  pool  and  come  up 
with  a  raucous  stutter  over  the  small  chub 
he  had  secured.  She  watched  the  swallows 
shatter  the  mirror  of  a  stretch  of  quiet  water 
27 


The  Lucky  Seven 


in  which  the  trees  hung  upside  down.  She 
watched  a  chipmunk,  who  appeared  on  a  log 
beside  her  as  suddenly  as  magic.  He  came 
closer  while  she  scarcely  breathed  and  fled 
in  horror  when  she  sneezed.  At  last  she  drew 
the  minnow  bucket  from  the  water  and  ex- 
amined the  nine  crayfish  which  remained. 
The  largest  one  waved  his  feelers,  bowed 
his  back  and  did  a  surprising  thing.  He  shot 
round  and  round  the  bottom  of  the  bucket, 
knocking  his  smaller  brothers  ruthlessly  from 
his  path. 

"Here,  stop  that!"  Mary's  Mary  told  him. 
She  inserted  her  hand  in  the  round  opening 
of  the  minnow  bucket,  determined  to  check 
his  brutal  progress.  Among  the  nine  cray- 
fish, soft  and  harmless  for  the  most  part,  was 
one  more  formidable  than  the  rest.  He  had 
not  shed  his  black  armour  as  yet,  but  its 
edges  were  beginning  to  lift.  Andrew's  fingers 
would  assist  nature,  and  the  crayfish  would 
emerge  prematurely  shell-less  and  delectable. 
This  operation,  however,  had  not  been  per- 
formed. 

28 


Bolters 


Mary's  Mary's  unfortunate  middle  finger 
wiggled  before  his  goggle  eyes.  Instantly  he 
seized  it.  There  was  a  scream,  a  clatter,  a 
splash.  The  minnow  bucket,  still  open,  sank 
out  of  sight. 

When  Andrew  recovered  it  with  a  crooked 
stick,  the  nine  hard-won  crayfish  were  only 
a  memory  and  Andrew  was  baitless. 

"Now  you've  done  it!"  he  told  her  wrath- 
fully. 

"He — he — bit  me,"  quavered  Mary's  Mary, 
examining  a  purple  dent  in  her  finger. 

"What  were  you  poking  in  the  bucket  for?" 

"The  biggest  one  was  walking  all  over  the 
others!"  she  explained. 

"Of  course,"  said  Andrew,  "the  biggest 
one  always  walks  over  the  others." 

He  grew  more  cheerful  at  this  thought  and 
softened  at  her  abject  look.  "Never  mind," 
he  told  her,  "I'll  get  some  minnows  in  the 
riffle." 

The  next  few  moments  were  exciting. 
Andrew  plowed  up  the  swift  riffle  with  his 
seine,  stumbled  and  fell,  but  at  last  came 
29 


The  Lucky  Seven 


dripping  to  a  gravel  bar  with  a  horde  of 
glistening,  wriggling  minnows  that  smelled 
delightfully  fishy. 

Mary's  Mary  tried  to  help.  She  seized  a 
silver-sided  little  fish  and  would  have  dropped 
him  in  the  bucket. 

"Throw  him  in  the  creek,"  ordered  Andrew, 
scooping  up  minnows.  "That's  a  shiner — 
he's  no  good." 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"When  you  put  him  on  the  hook,  he  just 
lies  on  the  bottom  and  dies.  Pick  out  the 
black  suckers.  See — like  this  one." 

"Are  they  better?" 

"Much,"  said  Andrew.  "They  struggle. 
They're  fools,  of  course;  but  they  don't  lie 
down  and  die.  It's  best  to  struggle." 

Mary's  Mary  blinked.     "Why?"  said  she. 

Andrew  lifted  the  seine,  turned  it  over  and 
plopped  the  despised  shiners  into  the  river. 
He  watched  them  turn  up  their  silver  sides, 
lie  gasping  on  the  surface  for  a  moment,  then 
gather  strength  enough  to  swim  feebly  for 
deeper  water. 

30 


Bolters 


"Because,"  he  said,  "if  we  struggle,  we 
haven't  time  to  think  about  it  all." 

"Oh!"  said  Mary's  Mary,  her  tone  im- 
plying that  his  explanation  had  been  ample. 

Until  late  that  night  she  lay  awake  and 
thought  about  her  friend.  She  wondered  if 
she  would  ever  learn  to  understand  the  things 
he  said.  She  doubted  it.  She  doubted  if  any 
one  could  understand  the  things  he  said. 
That  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  it  was  so 
wonderful  to  be  with  him. 

They  went  fishing  every  Sunday  after  that. 
Mary's  Mary  took  to  boots  and  a  rubber  coat 
when  it  rained,  and  a  red  sweater  as  the  fall 
came  on.  Then  wild  ducks  came  down  from 
the  north  and  rose  with  sudden  splatters  from 
small  reed-bordered  coves,  and  the  trees 
flamed  and  grew  bare  and  filled  the  river 
with  floating  leaves  which  caught  on  Andrew's 
line  and  made  his  reel  handle  go  round  just  as 
though  a  bass  was  taking  the  bait. 

One  day  there  was  ice  at  the  edge  of  the 
river.  Andrew  set  the  rods  along  the  bank 
and  built  a  fire  at  which  they  warmed  numb 
81 


The  Lucky  Seven 


fingers,  while  they  watched  the  lines  which 
never  moved  all  day.  Andrew  reeled  them 
in  at  last  and  unjointed  his  rods  with  a 
metallic  pop. 

"That's  all  until  next  spring,"  he  said, 
staring  at  the  river  which  was  not  friendly 
any  more.  The  water  was  dark  and  menacing. 
It  made  Mary's  Mary  shiver. 

She  studied  her  lessons  in  the  library  that 
winter  and  saw  Andrew  almost  every  evening. 
He  was  devouring  books  by  the  thousands, 
so  it  seemed  to  Mary's  Mary,  who  wanted 
diverting  after  an  hour  of  "j'ai,  tu  as,  il  a,"  or 
"arao,  amas,  amat." 

But  Andrew  slumped  in  his  chair,  turned 
pages  and  twisted  a  lock  of  his  hair  until  it 
stuck  out  from  his  head  like  a  horn  and  only 
grunted  when  she  said  good  night. 

Sometimes,  however,  he  would  get  up  from 
his  chair  suddenly  and  begin  to  stalk  about 
the  room  or  stand  before  the  mantel  and  rock 
back  and  forth  on  his  heels  and  toes.  Then 
he  would  talk.  Not  to  her  exactly,  but  aloud 
at  any  rate. 

32 


Bolters 


"It  isn't  what  you  put  in,"  he  would  inform 
her,  "it's  what  you  leave  out — that's  con- 
struction. There  are  a  million  ways  to  say 
anything,  of  course.  Selecting  the  right  one 
is  instinctive — I'm  not  afraid  of  that.  It's 
construction  that  will  bother  me  at  first." 

"Your  hair's  all  on  end,"  said  Mary's  Mary, 

"To  tell  it  just  as  it  is  will  be  hard.  I  wish 
I'd  let  the  sentimentalists  alone.  That  sort 
of  thing  is  over  with.  They've  done  me  no 
good,  and  they  stick  in  the  mind,  for  some 
reason.  It's  a  weakness,  I  suppose — I'm  afraid 
of  the  truth  like  all  the  rest.  The  Russians 
aren't,  but  they  run  to  one  strain — all  mor- 
bid. The  best  of  the  English  hit  it  exactly 
now  and  then,  but  they  don't  keep  it  up. 
They  lug  in  a  climax  and  spoil  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mary's  Mary  when  he  paused. 
It  was  not  until  late  in  the  winter  that  she 
guessed  the  riddle  of  these  discourses.  An- 
drew was  to  be  an  author! 

He  was  a  long  time  getting  at  it,  so  she 
thought.  It  would  be  exciting  when  he  be- 
gan to  write!  But  the  winter  passed,  and  all 


The  Lucky  Seven 


he  did  was  read.    He  confided  to  her  once  that 
his  mind  was  a  reservoir. 

"I'm  filling  up  now  while  I  have  the 
chance,"  he  explained.  "I'll  have  to  draw 
on  it  for  a  good  many  years." 

Before  the  winter  was  over  she  felt  sure  the 
reservoir  must  be  near  the  bursting  point. 
It  was  inconceivable  that  so  many  large 
volumes  could  go,  with  safety,  into  one  head. 

When  spring  came  they  resumed  their 
Sunday  fishing.  That  summer  dealt  with 
Mary's  Mary's  slim  young  body  as  it  was 
dealing  with  the  corn  and  the  wheat  and  a 
thousand  other  things  which  were  ripening. 
The  lines  of  her  began  to  flow.  Her  neck 
forsook  scrawniness  for  the  look  of  a  flexible 
column.  Her  lips  reddened  and  filled  to  a 
faint  pout.  The  white  plain  of  her  breast 
lifted  into  firm  curves.  By  fall  she  promised  to 
take  away  one's  breath  a  little  later.  And  this 
was  fair  enough.  The  cleaning-fluid  man,  who 
had  left  her  nothing  else,  had  been  a  splendid 
creature.  It  had  been  hard  to  look  upon 
him  unmoved — too  hard  for  Mary  Felloes. 
34 


Bolters 


Mary's  Mary  had  her  mother's  eyes  plus 
a  detached  look  hard  to  describe.  It  was  not 
quite  thoughtful,  not  quite  dreamy.  Miss 
Netty  Felloes  had  locked  her  in  hard,  thin 
arms  one  night  and  told  her  about  it  all.  And 
so  at  last  she  knew  why  they  had  called  the 
children  in,  and  why  she — like  her  friend — 
was  "different."  Perhaps  because  of  this 
an  exceptional  remoteness  lurked  in  her  eyes. 
You  felt,  when  looking  into  them,  that 
though  you  bound  her  in  chains,  her  soul 
would  escape  to  unknowable  heights  or 
abysses. 

To  Andrew,  however,  she  was  changeless. 
She  had  appealed  to  him  in  the  first  place  as 
distinctly  forlorn,  and  so  she  remained.  She 
was  a  carrier  of  minnow  buckets,  a  passer  of 
landing-nets.  She  could  sort  hooks,  un- 
tangle lines,  spread  out  their  luncheon  in  a 
dainty  fashion  altogether  beyond  him,  and 
listen  in  silence  when  visions  became  more 
tangible  in  words.  It  requires  a  little  of  awe 
— the  attitude  of  looking  upward — or  com- 
petition to  awaken  the  ardor  of  a  self-absorbed 
35 


The  Liucky  Seven 


young  male.  The  object  of  pity,  the  unsought, 
is  not  for  him. 

Andrew,  planning,  thinking,  dreaming,  saw 
only  the  girl  in  spectacles  when  he  looked  at 
Mary's  Mary.  She  was  to  go  to  business 
college  that  winter  in  a  city  not  far  away. 
Miss  Netty  Felloes  had  performed  miracles  of 
saving  that  this  might  be.  Mary's  Mary 
would  learn  stenography  and  later  take  a 
position  somewhere  where  no  one  knew.  And 
later  still  some  one,  perhaps  her  rising  young 
employer,  might.  .  .  But  when  he  was  told 
— he  would  have  to  be  told  of  course — would 
he  still  be  willing  to — Miss  Netty  Felloes 
prayed  that  he  would. 

Mary's  Mary  would  come  home — Maple 
Hill  was  that  to  Miss  Netty  Felloes  now — 
every  Friday. 

Andrew  approved  decidedly  of  the  business 
college  scheme.  It  was  a  good  thing  for  the 
girl,  and  he  wanted  to  be  alone  in  the  library 
that  winter.  Not  that  Mary's  Mary  ever 
spoke  without  an  invitation,  but  sometimes 
she  had  a  cold. 


Bolters 


He  patted  her  on  the  back  one  evening  in 
a  vague  fatherly  sort  of  way  and  told  her  to 
work  hard.  He  was  frowning  a  moment  after 
she  left  the  room  over  the  mental  synopsis 
of  the  first  chapter  of  his  first  novel. 

He  got  to  work  on  it  an  hour  later.  He 
wrote  with  pen  and  ink  in  an  almost  unin- 
telligible scrawl.  He  wrote  very  slowly, 
rarely  changed  a  word  and  misspelled  most 
of  them.  It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when 
his  thoughts  began  to  take  form  with  less 
continuity.  He  picked  up  what  he  had  written 
and  read  it  over.  His  eyes  were  brilliant  when 
he  finished.  A  surging  exultation  made  his 
heart  pound  and  reddened  his  cheeks  and  ears. 

"I  can  do  it,  I  can  do  it!"  rang  through  the 
chambers  of  his  mind.  He  closed  his  fists  and 
took  a  deep  breath.  "No  tricks,  not  one," 
he  promised  himself.  "I'll  tell  it  just  as  it 
is,  so  help  me  God!"  A  marble  bust  of 
Shakespeare  standing  on  a  book-case  caught 
his  eye.  "Eh,  Bill?"  said  Andrew  aloud, 
then  realized  that  he  was  trembling  with 
nervous  fatigue. 

37 


The  Lucky  Seven 


When  Mary's  Mary  returned  that  Friday 
the  first  chapter  was  finished.  Andrew  read 
it  aloud  to  her. 

"When  will  it  get  more  exciting?"  she  asked, 
when  he  put  down  the  manuscript. 

"It  won't  get  exciting,  if  I  can  help  it," 
said  Andrew  firmly. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Mary's  Mary. 

"Because,"  said  Andrew,  "life  isn't  ex- 
citing." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  like  it,"  said  Mary's 
Mary. 

Andrew  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair  and 
looked  at  her  thoughtfully  for  a  moment. 
"That  will  be  the  trouble,"  he  told  her. 
"So  few  are  going  to  like  it." 

Nothing  in  particular  happened  that  winter, 
except  that  Mary's  Mary  took  off  her  spec- 
tacles. An  oculist  at  whom  she  smiled  and 
pouted  by  turns  wrote  reluctantly  to  Aunt 
Netty  permitting  it.  Mary's  Mary  had  a 
headache  for  three  days,  but  the  result  was 
dazzling.  By  now  she  was  quite  marvelous, 
though  Andrew,  with  his  first  brain  child 
38 


Bolters 


growing  more  lusty  each  night,  was  unaware 
of  it. 

It  rushed  over  him,  all  in  a  moment,  one 
day  late  in  the  spring.  It  was  a  holiday  of 
some  sort,  and  Andrew  decided  to  go  fishing. 
Mary's  Mary  went  along. 

The  earth  was  new  that  morning;  the  earth 
and  the  clear  blue  sky.  Even  the  river  seemed 
new.  It  sparkled  in  the  sunlight  like  greenish 
amber  wine.  Andrew  hooked  a  big  bass  at 
the  head  of  Watson's  Pool.  The  rod  bent, 
the  reel  shrieked,  the  line  cut  through  the 
riffle  until  fifty  feet  of  it  were  gone. 

"I've  got  him!"  yelled  Andrew,  floundering 
down  the  riffle  to  save  the  line.  And  then  the 
fish  broke  water. 

Mary's  Mary  screamed  with  excitement. 

"Zee-e-e!"  went  the  reel,  as  the  monster 
with  the  help  of  the  current  bored  his  way 
down-stream.  Andrew  thumbed  his  reel.  He 
could  follow  no  further  in  his  hip-boots,  for 
Watson's  Pool  is  deep  water. 

Mary's  Mary  danced  along  the  edge  of  the 
high  bank,  landing-net  in  hand.  Under  her 
39 


The  Lucky  Seven 


feet  the  tawny  spring  floods  had  been  at 
work,  and  suddenly  a  ton  or  more  of  earth 
plunged  into  Watson's  Pool.  Mary's  Mary 
went  with  it. 

Andrew  dropped  his  rod  and  followed. 

Of  course  his  boots  filled  at  once.  Of 
course  the  water  was  cold  at  that  time  of  the 
year.  Of  course  Mary's  Mary  clutched  him 
wildly  when  he  reached  her. 

Then,  as  Andrew  fought  with  death,  it 
came  to  him,  never  to  be  doubted  afterward, 
that  the  struggling,  clinging  thing,  her  white 
face  flashing  at  him  when  the  wet  masses  of 
her  hair  were  swirled  aside  in  an  eddy  of  their 
struggles,  was  dearer  to  him  than  life.  And 
knowing  this  he  found  himself  at  last  leaning 
against  a  sloping  grassy  bank,  holding  her  in 
his  arms. 

The  sun  beat  down  on  Watson's  Pool, 
dark  green,  foam-flecked,  placid  except  for 
little  ripples  that  still  scurried  wildly  as 
though  frightened  at  what  they  had  just  seen. 
It  beat  on  Andrew  and  warmed  him.  He 
wondered  how  Mary's  Mary  could  be  so 
40 


Bolters 


warm.  She  was  like  a  soft  fire  in  his  arms, 
warmer,  more  penetrating  than  the  sun.  The 
warmth  of  her  seemed  to  become  a  part  of  him 
— it  flowed  in  his  veins.  Then  she  opened  her 
eyes.  Andrew  was  looking  at  them  as  she  did  so. 

"Did  he  get  away?"  she  whispered. 

Andrew  did  not  answer.  He  only  stared. 
"Your  eyes,"  he  said  at  last,  "oh,  your  eyes!" 

Mary's  Mary  closed  them  promptly.  There 
was  something  in  Andrew's  eyes  that  fright- 
ened her  a  little.  Her  lips  parted,  as  she  took 
a  fluttering  breath.  Then  Andrew  noticed 
them — so  red  they  were  in  her  white  face 
with  her  white  teeth  just  showing  between! 

Before  he  realized  it  his  own  lips  had 
touched  them  questioningly.  He  felt  them 
quiver  and  answer.  When  he  lifted  his  head 
again  and  looked  at  her,  her  face  was  not  so 
white. 

"We  must  go  home,"  said  Mary's  Mary, 
stirring  uneasily,  "we're  all  wet." 

"Yes,"  said  Andrew.  "But  first,  tell  me 
— are  you  glad?" 

"Glad?" 

41 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"About  this,"  said  Andrew,  tightening  his 
arms. 

"I— I  don't  know." 

"Don't  you?"  said  Andrew,  and  kissed  her 
again.  "Don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary's  Mary  faintly.  And 
now  her  face  was  not  white  at  all.  She  hid 
it  against  Andrew's  wet  shoulder. 

Andrew  did  not  write  that  evening.  He 
planned  their  future  instead.  When  his  novel 
was  finished,  they  would  be  married  and  go 
away.  "You  see,  we  can't  live  here,"  he 
explained. 

"No,"  said  Mary's  Mary,  growing  pale. 

"Lamb!"  said  Andrew,  holding  her  closer. 
He  called  her  lamb  from  then  on. 

Where  they  should  go  remained  undecided 
all  summer. 

Andrew  finished  his  novel  late  that  fall  and 
sent  it  off  to  a  publisher.  A  letter  he  re- 
ceived two  weeks  later  took  him  to  old  Mr. 
Trescott,  who  tipped  back  in  his  desk  chair 
and  picked  up  an  ivory  paper-cutter  when 
Andrew  told  him  that  he  wanted  advice. 
42 


Bolters 


"Advice,"  said  Mr.  Trescott,  tapping  the 
back  of  his  hand  with  the  paper-cutter,  "is 
worth  so  little  that  anybody  can  spare  it,  and 
nobody  takes  it;  fire  ahead." 

"Will  you  please  read  that?"  said  Andrew* 
laying  his  letter  on  the  desk. 

Mr.  Trescott  got  out  his  reading-glasses, 
put  them  on  and  read  the  letter. 

"H-mm!"  he  said.  "When  did  you  write 
this -novel?" 

"At  night,"  said  Andrew. 

"After  your  day's  work?" 

"Yes." 

Old  Mr.  Trescott  read  the  letter  again. 

Andrew  peered  over  his  shoulder.  "You 
see  they  ask  me  to  come  to  New  York  if  I 
can." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Trescott.  "Well,  why 
don't  you  go?" 

"I  mean  to;  I  should  like  to  go  for  good. 
I  should  like  to  give  up  my  place  here." 

"And  write?" 

"I  hope  to." 

"Why  not  write  here?" 
43 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Because,"  said  Andrew,  "I  expect  to  be 
married." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

Andrew  lifted  his  head  and  met  Mr. 
Trescott 's  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  Mary's  Mary — I  mean 
Mary  Felloes,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Trescott  dropped  the  paper-cutter 
with  a  clatter.  He  recovered  it  and  placed  it 
carefully  on  the  desk,  avoiding  Andrew's  eyes. 

Andrew  rose  and  nodded  stiffly. 

"Here,  none  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Trescott. 
"Sit  down!" 

"I  had  thought,"  said  Andrew,  "that  you 
were  bigger  than — the  rest!" 

"Bigger!"  said  Mr.  Trescott.  "It  isn't  a 
question  of  breadth  of  view.  It's  a  question 
of  common  sense.  You're  after  happiness  at 
first,  and  later  contentment.  Isn't  that  so?" 

Andrew  nodded. 

"Well,  then,  eighty  per  cent,  of  all  marriages 
under  favourable  conditions,  favourable  con- 
ditions, understand  me,  are  either  public  or 
private  failures." 

44 


Bolters 


"That's  just  it,"  said  Andrew  quickly. 
"The  conditions  are  too  favourable.  This 
is  different.  She  has  been  wronged.  She 
has  been  cheated  of — everything.  We  have 
only — each  other.  Don't  you  see? — this  is 
different." 

Mr.  Trescott  sighed.  "No,"  he  said,  "I 
don't  see  that  it's  different.  It's  just  an  old 
fool  talking  to  a  young  fool  in  love.  You  met 
her  in  my  house,  did  you  not?" 

"I  did,"  said  Andrew. 

"That  gives  me  the  right  to  ramble  on  a 
little,  and  you  must  listen.  Sit  down!" 

Andrew  returned  to  his  seat. 

Old  Mr.  Trescott  put  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
together  and  half  closed  his  eyes.  "We 
learn,"  he  said  at  last,  "by  reading  and 
experience — you'll  admit  that?" 

Andrew  nodded. 

"Very  well.  I  have  learned  that  man  is  by 
instinct  a  polygamous  animal  and — so  is 
woman.  We  have  tried  for  uncounted 
centuries  to  breed  it  out  of  her — a  hit  or  miss 
breeding  to  be  sure.  Still  we  have  made  an 
45 


The  Lucky  Seven 


effort  at  selection.  We  have  sought  out  for 
wives  the  daughters  of  mothers  who  have 
bowed  to  the  moral  law.  You  follow  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Andrew  with  dry  lips. 

"And  yet,"  old  Mr.  Trescott  went  on, 
"after  these  centuries  of  breeding  the  instinct 
is  still  there.  It  crops  out  now  and  then  and 
destroys  homes  and  wrecks  lives  and  plays  the 
devil  generally.  I  learn  this  by  reading 
biology,  history  and  the  daily  papers.  So 
much  for  reading.  Now  for  experience.  For 
forty  years  I  have  bred  pointers.  I  have  bred 
them  for  the  pleasure  of  my  friends  and  myself. 
The  foundation  of  my  strain  was  old  Peg. 
She's  been  dead  thirty  years.  She  was  won- 
derful in  the  field — but  she  was  a  bolter.  Do 
you  know  what  a  bolter  is?" 

"No,"  said  Andrew. 

"A  bolter  is  a  bird-dog  that  will  go  to 
retrieve  a  dead  bird  and  will  swallow  it — if 
hungry.  He  swallows  it,  because  the  in- 
stinct to  do  so  overcomes  him  when  he  is 
hungry.  Of  course  man  has  spent  several 
hundred  years  trying  to  breed  that  instinct 
46 


Bolters 


out  of  the  hunting-dog.  And  yet,  with  all 
this  scientific  breeding,  we  still  have  bolters. 
You  understand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Andrew. 

"Well,  old  Peg,  as  I  say,  was  a  bolter.  But 
she  was  such  a  grand  old  girl  that  I  hunted 
her  until  she  died,  and  never  let  her  get 
hungry.  You  see  the  point?  I  never  let  her 
get  hungry." 

Andrew  nodded. 

"That  was  thirty  years  ago.  I've  bred 
eight  generations  down  from  Peg,  and  they've 
been  good  dogs — splendid.  They've  given 
me  more  pleasure  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  But  one — sometimes  two  in  every 
litter  have  been  bolters.  What  do  you  think 
of  that?" 

Andrew  hesitated.  "Why,  that's  natural 
enough,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Trescott,  "I  think  it  is. 
I  stick  to  old  Peg's  strain  in  spite  of  it.  Of 
course  I  kept  the  bolters  for  myself.  I 
couldn't  send  one  to  a  friend.  They  were 
good  dogs — stanch  and  faithful — I  just  never 
47 


The  Lucky  Seven 


let  'em  get  hungry."  Mr.  Trescott  paused 
and  lifted  his  finger  at  Andrew.  "You've 
asked  for  'advice';  well,  here  it  is — never  let 
a  bolter  get  hungry!" 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Andrew. 

"You  don't?"  Mr.  Trescott  looked  thought- 
fully at  Andrew  for  a  moment.  "Of  course 
you  don't,"  he  said  suddenly.  "I  am  an  old 
fool.  I  hope  you  never  will." 

Andrew  and  Mary's  Mary  were  married  in 
the  library  at  Maple  Hill.  They  had  a  wit- 
ness and  a  guest.  Miss  Netty  Felloes,  who 
was  the  witness,  kissed  Andrew  on  both 
cheeks:  old  Mr.  Trescott,  who  was  the  guest, 
put  something  in  Mary's  Mary's  hand. 

"For  a  beautiful,  a  very  beautiful  bride," 
he  said.  It  was  a  check  for  five  hundred 
dollars.  They  examined  it  on  the  train. 

They  arrived  in  New  York  the  following 
day.  Andrew  spent  the  afternoon  with  his 
publisher.  Mary's  Mary  was  left  alone 
in  a  musty  room  of  the  old-fashioned  down- 
town hotel  recommended  by  Mr.  Trescott. 
Although  she  could  hear  the  elevated  trains 
48 


Bolters 


clatter  past  and  watch  all  the  little  people  in 
the  street  below  and  turn  the  wheel  on  the 
steam-heater  and  poke  pins  out  of  a  crack  in 
the  marble  top  of  the  bureau  with  her  nail 
scissors,  it  was  better  just  to  sit  and  say 
"Mrs.  Day"  softly  a  great  many  times.  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  this,  years  seemed  to  pass  before 
Andrew  knocked  on  the  door. 

"He  says  it's  fine,"  he  burst  out,  "the 
finest  thing  he  has  seen  by  a  new  man.  He 
says  it  won't  be  popular,  but  I  knew  that." 

Mary's  Mary  clung  to  him.  What  he  was 
saying  was  nothing.  Having  him  back  was 
more  than  all  the  words  that  had  ever  been 
spoken  or  written. 

They  dined  that  night  in  a  pink-and-gold 
cafe  beside  a  long  gold  mirror,  and  the  dreary 
hours  of  the  afternoon  were  swept  out  of  her 
mind  by  a  breath-taking  discovery.  While 
Andrew  frowned  at  the  menu  card,  Mary's 
Mary  looked  about  her.  First  she  noticed 
the  women.  It  was  surprising  how  pink 
their  cheeks  were,  how  red  their  lips  and  how 
white  their  noses.  Their  clothes  were  won- 
49 


The  Lucky  Seven 


derful  and  their  jewels,  and  the  way  they 
moved  their  heads  and  their  smooth,  white 
arms.  Many  of  the  women  stared  at  her. 
So  did  the  men  who  were  with  them;  in- 
differently at  first,  and  then  with  a  curious 
gleam  in  their  tired-looking  eyes.  She  turned 
her  head  uneasily  and  saw  a  face  in  the  mirror 
that  startled  her  for  an  instant,  it  was  so 
lovely.  The  other  women's  faces  were  almost 
hideous  in  comparison.  .  .  .  Mary's  Mary 
warmed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  sudden  flame 
of  happiness.  The  face  in  the  mirror  was 
her  own! 

Next  day  they  hunted  for  apartments  and 
remained  dumb  while  sleek-headed,  pudgy- 
handed  gentlemen  mentioned  fabulous  sums. 
They  settled  finally  on  a  living-room,  bed- 
room, bath  and  kitchenette  somewhere  in  the 
Thirties. 

Mary's  Mary  had  a  vision  of  herself  at  the 
head  of  the  centre  table  in  the  living-room 
with  the  ten-inch  fireplace,  hostess  to  some 
of  the  delightful  millions  just  outside  her 
walls. 

50 


Bolters 


They  brought  themselves  and  their  meager 
belongings  to  their  new  home  the  following 
day,  and  disappeared  in  the  human  ocean  of 
Manhattan  like  two  small  pebbles  cast  into 
the  sea. 


During  that  first  year  in  New  York  in 
which  five  thousand  copies  of  Andrew's  book 
were  sold  and  another  one  was  written,  they 
met  no  one. 

"Friends  are  expensive  here,"  Andrew  told 
her.  "They  take  time  and  money.  I  can't 
spare  either  now.  Wait  until  my  work  be- 
gins to  tell."  So  Mary's  Mary  waited. 

It  did  not  strike  her  as  a  hardship  at  first. 
The  year  was  nearly  over  before  she  took  to 
walking  in  the  afternoons  and  watching  the 
people  wistfully  and  wondering  who  they 
were  and  where  they  were  going. 

Many  of  these  people  looked  at  her,  the  men 
especially.  Sometimes  she  found  that  they 
had  turned  to  watch  her.  That  was  not  what 
51 


The  Lucky  Seven 


she  wanted  though.  Her  name  was  really  hers 
at  last.  She  wanted  just  one  or  two  to  stop 
and  smile  and  call  her  Mrs.  Day  and  ask  her 
how  she  had  been  and  how  Andrew  was,  and 
pleasant  things  like  that. 

They  could  afford  almost  nothing,  she  knew, 
not  even  a  baby — Andrew  had  explained  about 
that;  but  just  one  or  two  of  these  people  must 
know  about  trees  and  birds  and  rivers,  es- 
pecially rivers,  and  might  be  glad  to  know  that 
she  knew  how  a  chickadee  hopped  or  a  red- 
bird  sang  or  a  crow  flapped  over  a  corn-field. 
Why  even  here,  with  stone  pressing  in  on 
every  side  so  that  she  could  even  smell  it, 
she  could  close  her  eyes  and  see  a  river  and 
hear  a  kingfisher  stutter  as  he  dipped  and 
lifted  until  he  disappeared  around  the  bend. 

Andrew  had  forgotten  about  rivers  ap- 
parently. He  just  wrote,  day  after  day  and 
night  after  night.  Even  when  they  had  steak 
at  thirty-five  cents  a  pound  and  she  had 
broiled  it  so  carefully  and  it  was  on  the  table 
in  the  blue-and-white  platter,  his  pen  would 
still  go  scratch,  scratch!  When  he  threw  it 
52 


Bolters 


down  at  last  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead  and  then  through  his  hair,  the  steak 
would  be  cold.  He  never  seemed  to  mind 
though.  He  would  move  over  to  the  centre 
table  with  some  pages  he  had  written  and 
read  while  he  ate.  She  wondered  why  he 
never  noticed  that  the  gravy  had  become  so 
white  and  suety  that  she  could  take  only  one 
bite. 

It  took  Andrew  thirteen  months  to  write  his 
second  book.  He  finished  it  at  five  o'clock  one 
afternoon  and  jumped  up  from  the  desk  with 
a  yell  that  startled  Mary's  Mary.  After 
dinner  that  night  he  sat  down  in  the  biggest 
chair — the  one  that  had  cost  twenty-seven 
dollars  at  a  second-hand  store. 

"Come  here,  Lamb,"  he  said,  patting  his 
knee. 

Mary's  Mary  went  to  him. 

For  a  long  time  he  rubbed  his  cheek  against 
hers  and  said  nothing.  He  had  forgotten  to 
shave  that  day,  and  she  was  glad  when  he 
stopped  and  began  to  talk  about  construction 
and  unconscious  realism  and  incidental  climax. 
.53 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Not  deliberate  climax,  she  must  understand. 
Life  was  not  climactic,  and  its  true  reflection 
could  not  be  accomplished  by  planned  sus- 
pense. 

"I  grant  myself  selection,  of  course,"  he 
told  her,  "I  may  select  charming  episodes  to 
some  extent;  picking  over  blood  and  bones, 
this  talk  of  sweat  and  hairy  chests  isn't 
necessarily  genuine.  It  passes  for  it  among 
ganders,  but  a  butterfly  in  the  sunlight  is 
quite  as  real." 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Mary's  Mary.  "I'd  love 
to  see  one.  And  a  bumblebee,  too;  and  red 
clover  in  a  field." 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  to  be  an  exquisite," 
Andrew  went  on.  "The  vital  things  after  all 
are  human.  Nature  is  only  important  as  it 
affects  man.  Leave  word-painting  to  the 
poets.  The  prose  writer  should  concern 
himself  more  with  people  than  their  environ- 
ment." 

"People!"  exclaimed  Mary's  Mary,  sitting 
up  straight.  "Are  you  going  to  write  about 
people  now?  Then  you'll  have  to  meet  some, 
54 


Bolters 


won't  you?  I'll  have  to  get  a  suit,  and  a  coat 
with  a  fur  collar,  and  a  gown  cut  in  a  V  behind 
with  straps  over  the  shoulders.  What  bank 
did  you  put  my  money  in?" 

Andrew  stared  at  her.  "Write  about 
people!  Why,  what  did  you  think  I'd  been 
writing  about — vegetables?"  Suddenly  he 
laughed  and  pulled  her  down,  holding  her 
close  once  more.  "Oh,  Lamb!"  he  said. 
"What  a  wonderful  Lamb  you  are!" 

But  presently  he  felt  a  wetness  on  his  cheek 
where  it  was  pressed  against  hers.  He 
squeezed  a  soft  shoulder  that  was  beneath 
his  hand.  "What  is  it?"  he  asked,  smiling  to 
himself. 

And  then  Mary's  Mary  drew  away  from  him 
and  said  astonishing  things.  "I  never,"  she 
gasped,  "see  any  one  but  you.  No  one  calls 
me  Mrs.  Day  but  the  elevator  boy  and  once 
the  janitor.  I  love  our  river — I  only  left  it 
to  have  friends.  I  have  no  friends — I'd  rather 
go  back  to  our  river.  I  hate  people  in  furs 
hurrying  by  me  in  my  brown  suit.  I  hate  it, 
I  hate  it,  I  hate  it!  And  your  beard  hurts  me !" 
55 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Good  Lord!"  said  Andrew,  releasing  her 
altogether. 

Mary's  Mary  stood  up  before  him.  "Oh, 
you  needn't  look  at  me  like  that.  I'm  glad 
I  said  it.  I  want  to  talk  to  people.  I  want  to 
laugh,  as  they  do,  at  things  that  I  can  under- 
stand. All  I  do  is  cook  and  wash  those  dishes 
and  clean  the  rooms,  while  you  take  your 
walk.  I  sit  here  every  night  and  keep  quiet 
while  you  write.  All  the  other  women  are  out 
where  it's  bright  like  fairyland.  They  have 
flowers  and  everything,  no  matter  how  ugly 
they  are.  I  am  not  ugly,  but  I — but  I — I'm 
going  to  bed  now." 

Andrew,  speechless,  watched  her  cross  the 
room  and  heard  the  bedroom  door  close. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said  again,  getting  to  his 
feet.  He  whistled  softly  and  began  to  pace 
back  and  forth.  It  was  as  though  his  heart 
or  his  right  arm  had  suddenly  become  in- 
surgent. Of  course  the  work  which  he  must 
do  came  first;  they  must  give  a  certain 
part  of  their  lives  to  it.  Not  he  nor  she 
separately,  but  both  as  one.  It  was  the 
56 


Bolters 


other  half  of  him  who  was  finding  this  irb 
some. 

She  wanted  people!  People  had  become 
clothes  with  faces  above,  moving  past  him  in 
the  street.  He  was  telling  the  truth  about 
them  in  chiseled  sentences.  If  they  got 
nearer  they  would  distract  and  confuse  him. 
He  was  certain  that  he  must  remain  aloof 
to  see  clearly.  And  then,  as  he  had  told  her, 
he  could  not  afford  friendships.  That  sort  of 
thing  meant — why,  it  was  out  of  the  question. 
It  was  costing  them  sixteen  hundred  a  year 
to  live  as  it  was.  His  first  book  had  brought 
in  seven  hundred.  The  last  one  might  do  a 
little  better,  but  not  much.  Not  in  a  half- 
educated  land,  ruled  by  demagogues  and 
steeped  in  puritanism,  where  truth  was  either 
unguessed  or  called  vulgar,  and  sentimental 
bathos  charmed  nine  out  of  every  ten. 

Two  years  more  would  see  the  end  of  his 
three  thousand  dollars,  and  then — what? 
Well,  by  that  time  his  work  would  surely  tell. 
While  the  horde  would  not  appreciate  it, 
enough  of  them  would  ape  the  few  to  insure 
57 


The  Lucky  Seven 


him  a  living  at  least,  perhaps  comfort,  even 
luxury. 

But  the  other  half  of  him  was  in  revolt,  and 
something  must  be  done  about  this  pre- 
cious other  half  of  him — something  must  be 
done.  .  .  . 

Andrew  went  out  for  his  customary  walk 
next  morning  and  returned  with  a  violet- 
colored  box.  Mary's  Mary  was  sweeping, 
with  her  head  bound  in  a  dust-cloth.  She 
looked  at  the  gilt  clock  and  then  at  Andrew. 

"You're  back  twenty  minutes  early,"  she 
said  timidly.  The  terrible  things  she  had 
said  the  night  before  had  not  been  discussed 
as  yet. 

Andrew  put  his  box  on  the  table.  "Lamb," 
he  said,  "we're  going  to  take  a  week  off.  I 
shan't  write  until  next  Monday."  He  took 
some  new  yellow  bills  from  his  pocket  and 
laid  them  beside  the  box.  "Here  is  your 
five  hundred  dollars.  Get  a  pretty  dress — 
get  what  you  need.  We'll  take  this  town 
apart  and  see  what  makes  it  go." 

Mary's  Mary  dropped  her  broom  and  threw 
58 


Bolters 


herself  into  his  arms.  "What's  in  that  box?" 
she  asked  when  the  first  tremendous  excite- 
ment was  over. 

"Violets,"  said  Andrew  calmly. 

Mary's  Mary  screamed. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  was  all  but  running 
toward  a  shopping  district,  her  eyes  like 
velvet  stars.  It  was  dark  when  she  returned. 
Several  boxes  and  packages  had  preceded  her. 

After  supper  she  tried  on  everything.  An- 
drew was  startled  by  the  gown  with  the  V  in 
the  back  and  straps  over  the  shoulders. 

"Won't  you  be — cold?"  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Mary's  Mary,  swathing 
herself  in  a  rose  velvet  cape  trimmed  with 
white  fur. 

Andrew  stared  at  her.  Was  this  the  other 
half  of  him — this  fairy,  palpitant,  night- 
crowned  creature,  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  the 
dawn?  It  seemed  impossible,  but  he  ven- 
tured a  question. 

"How  much  did  it  all  cost?" 

She  was  looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror, 
with  her  head  twisted  over  one  shoulder. 
59 


The  Lucky  Seven 


'  "I  had  seven  dollars  left,"  she  told  him  ab- 
sently, "after  I  paid  for  my  suit,  but  the 
thing  for  my  hair  is  coming  C.  O.  D.  It  was 
twelve  dollars,  I  think." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Andrew  for  the  third 
time  in  twenty-four  hours. 

The  most  wonderful  week  of  her  life  fol- 
lowed for  Mary's  Mary.  It  was  like  a  blissful 
dream.  It  included  theatres,  the  opera, 
dinners,  suppers  and  whirling  home  luxuriously 
in  taxicabs.  It  cost  Andrew  one  hundred  and 
thirty  dollars.  He  plunged  into  the  writing 
of  his  third  novel,  ridden  by  the  thought  that 
they  were  six  hundred  dollars  poorer,  with 
nothing  to  show  for  it.  He  forgot  Mary's 
Mary's  suit  and  the  street  hat  that  looked 
like  a  bucket.  They  were  assets,  of  course. 
She  could  wear  them  for  a  long  time.  Also, 
although  she  only  took  them  out  to  look  at 
them  now  and  then,  it  was  a  great  comfort  to 
know  that  the  evening  gown  and  wrap  were 
hanging  in  the  closet. 

Many  admirable  critics  think  Andrew's 
third  book  his  greatest.  It  is  tremendously 
60 


Bolters 


compact,  of  course,  but  it  has  none  of  the 
leisurely  quality  of  his  first  work.  To  me  it 
is  the  controlled  expression  of  a  soul  with 
devils  in  charge — material  devils  that  took 
the  form  of  monthly  rent,  the  grocery  bill 
and  a  bank  balance  melting,  melting.  By 
demons  he  was  driven,  and  like  a  demon  he 
worked — as  much  as  sixteen  hours  out  of  the 
twenty-four.  And  those  hours  squeezed  him 
dry  of  vitality  to  the  last  drop,  so  that  none 
was  left  for  the  other  half  of  him. 

He  knew  this  was  regrettable,  but  it  must 
be  borne  for  a  time.  It  was  their  work,  and 
though  it  became  a  giant  and  they  two  pig- 
mies in  its  grip  they  were  nourishing  its 
growing  body  so  that  it  would  tower  at  last 
for  even  the  dimmest  eyes  to  see,  holding 
its  small  creators  safe  in  its  splendid  arms. 

He  was  ten  months  at  his  third  book.  In 
those  months  Mary's  Mary  heard  the  scratch- 
ing of  a  pen,  the  ticking  of  the  gilt  clock,  the 
faint,  though  tantalizing  noises  of  the  city — 
and  little  else. 

A  marriage  of  intellectuals  makes  for  the 
61 


The  Liucky  Seven 


sort  of  helpful  criticism  that  fills  an  artist 
with  desire  to  murder.  So  far  as  mentalities 
were  concerned,  Andrew  had  done  well  in  his 
mating;  but  he  was  expressing  himself,  and 
Mary's  Mary  was  beautiful. 

Poets  must  sing  or  sorrow.  A  woman's 
beauty  is  her  sonnet.  If  it  remains  unseen, 
her  life  is  mute.  Mary's  Mary  ceased  at  last 
to  think  of  Andrew  as  her  friend.  He  was 
a  silent,  sombre-eyed  jailer  who  wrote  words 
on  paper,  while  she  withered  unnoticed  in  a 
prison.  She  could  not  have  told  him  so.  It 
was  hard  to  put  her  feelings  into  words,  as 
she  expressed  it.  And  anything  that  any  one 
said  to  Andrew  always  sounded  "silly."  She 
could  only  spend  hours  wanting  to  scream  and 
not  doing  so. 

By  the  time  his  fourth  book  was  well  under 
way,  Andrew  was  distinctly  observable  in  the 
literary  skies.  I  mean  those  rarer  skies  which 
are  viewed  through  shell -rimmed  spectacles 
or  a  gold  pince-nez.  His  sales  had  increased 
somewhat,  but  screaming  head-lines  and  as- 
tonishing best-sellers  absorbed  the  half -savage, 
62 


Bolters 


half-childish  leisure  of  most  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen;  and  his  bank  balance,  reduced 
to  a  few  hundreds,  just  held  its  own. 

He  gave  up  part  of  one  evening,  however, 
to  an  admirer. 

Montgomery  Fay,  or  Monty  Fay,  as  he  was 
called  in  film  land,  had  started  his  career  as  a 
writer  of  turbulent  tales  that  moved  through 
adventures  and  escapes  with  the  speed  of  a 
racing  motor-car.  He  turned  these  out — 
three  a  year — for  three  years,  and  then 
dramatized  one  of  them  into  "a  play  with  a 
punch."  It  made  a  fortune  in  New  York 
alone,  and  later  another  fortune  on  the  road 
and  in  stock.  It  failed  in  London,  but  "went 
big"  in  Australia.  Its  total  earnings  lighted 
a  flame  in  Monty's  keen  grey  eyes  that  never 
again  died  out. 

He  tried  to  "repeat"  and  failed.  Tried 
again  and  failed.  The  punch  in  both  cases, 
which  should  have  produced  a  knockout,  did 
not  even  stagger  dwindling  audiences.  New 
York  went  elsewhere,  looking  for  more  brutal 
treatment.  But  his  deepest  instincts  were 
63 


The  Lucky  Seven 


aroused.  Monty  was  a  natural  "money 
getter."  He  went  into  moving  pictures, 
became  vice-president  and  manager  of  a  film 
company  and  was  immediately  successful. 
All  in  the  day's  work  he  wrote  scenarios, 
doctored  others,  bought  anything  in  the 
animal  kingdom  from  an  elephant  to  an  asp, 
leased  islands,  deserts,  steamboats,  locomo- 
tives, schemed,  directed,  hired,  fired  and 
turned  sudden  ideas  of  his  own  over  to  lesser 
men,  and  later  into  dollars. 

He  was  not  quite  thirty,  and  a  bachelor. 
In  his  professional  life  he  showered  praise, 
prayers  and  curses  impartially  on  fair,  some- 
times talented,  ladies.  His  more  serious  en- 
gagements with  the  other  sex  can  be  de- 
scribed in  terms  of  the  military.  His  cam- 
paigns were  monotonously  alike.  They  con- 
sisted of  a  preliminary  skirmish;  an  advance 
while  the  enemy  retreated;  a  siege;  a  final 
irresistible  attack;  a  bivouac  in  the  heart  of 
the  citadel;  a  withdrawal,  during  which  he 
fought  an  evasive  rear-guard  action;  a  return 
to  his  base  unscathed. 

64 


Bolters 


He  was  not  essentially  a  libertine.  He 
would  protect  and  advise  innocence,  if  he 
found  it  genuine.  But  love-making  was  at 
once  a  game  and  an  art.  His  adversary  being 
his  equal,  he  played  his  best,  avoiding  the 
anti-climax  of  domesticity,  while  he  was  still 
young  enough  to  value  freedom  more  than 
companionship. 

At  a  dinner  one  evening  he  met  a  Columbia 
professor  who  was  surprisingly  enthusiastic 
over  the  future  of  moving  pictures. 

"A  great  new  art,"  he  told  Monty.  "In 
its  infancy  as  yet.  It  will  produce  its  masters. 
It  can  be  made  the  strongest  medium  for 
education  in  the  world." 

This  was  not  the  usual  highbrow  pronounce- 
ment against  the  movies,  and  Monty  was 
interested.  "I'm  with  you  in  everything 
you  say  except  about  education,"  he  said. 
"The  screen  isn't  in  it  with  books  in  that 
respect,  is  it?" 

"I  said  medium,"  the  man  from  Columbia 
explained.  "The  written  word  is  education. 
I  would  call  the  people's  attention  to  it 
65 


The  Lucky  Seven 


through  the  universal  and  palatable  medium 
of  moving  pictures." 

"I  don't  get  you,"  said  Monty.     "How?" 

"By  giving  your  audience  a  powerful, 
though  indirect,  suggestion  about  what  it 
shall  read.  You  find,  do  you  not,  that  a  mov- 
ing picture  taken  from  the  scenes  of  a  certain 
book  will  increase  the  sale  of  that  book?" 

"Sure,"  said  Monty.  "It  would  pay  authors 
to  give  us  the  rights  instead  of  trying  to  shake 
us  down." 

"Well,  then,  suppose  you  take  the  work  of 
the  foremost  living  authors  and  adapt  it  to 
the  screen.  I  say  living  authors,  because  the 
classics  are  not  so  practical  as  the  present-day 
view-point.  Take  moderns,  then,  and  dram- 
atize them.  Such  men  as — ."  The  man 
from  Columbia  mentioned  a  dozen  names. 

"I  see,"  said  Monty.  "But  you  haven't 
given  me  a  single  American.  Why  should 
we  advertise  the  work  of  Englishmen  and 
Belgians  and  Russians  and  pass  up  our  own 
men?" 

"Because  we  have  only  one  of  that  class, 
66 


Bolters 


and  I  don't  believe  his  work  would  drama- 
tize." 

"Who  do  you  mean?"  asked  Monty. 

"I  mean  Andrew  Day." 

"Andrew  Day — I've  never  heard  of  him!" 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  man  from  Columbia, 
"you  might  not  care  for  him." 

Monty  flushed  slightly.  "I'm  going  to 
find  out,  at  any  rate,"  he  said.  "Thank  you 
for  telling  me  about  him." 

A  few  nights  later,  having  dined  well, 
Monty  selected  a  deep  lounging  chair  in  his 
apartment,  opened  "Wild  Olives,"  and  began 
to  read.  For  some  time  he  gave  himself  up 
to  a  mental  as  well  as  physical  slouchiness, 
but  he  found  his  mind  slipping  over  Andrew's 
closely  woven  paragraphs  as  though  they 
were  glass. 

"What  the  devil  is  all  this?"  he  asked 
himself  finally,  then  sat  up,  turned  back 
several  pages  and  began  again. 

Despite  the  insinuation  of  the  man  from 
Columbia,  Monty  was  capable  of  deeply 
thoughtful  moments.  He  now  gave  his  best 
67 


The  Lucky  Seven 


powers  to  his  reading,  and,  concentrating 
more  and  mere,  Andrew's  mind  became  his 
own.  .  .  .  Presently  he  was  watching  the 
world  go  by  and  estimating  its  exact  values. 
Three  hours  had  passed  when  Monty  got 
suddenly  to  his  feet. 

"Why,  he's  telling  the  truth,"  he  burst 
out.  "That's  what  he's  doing— telling  the 
truth."  He  opened  his  book  and  stared  un- 
seeingly  at  one  of  its  pages.  It  was  so  simple 
after  all,  and  yet  so  rare. 

From  then  on  Monty  became  an  enthusias- 
tic "Day  fan,"  as  Andrew's  admirers  were 
called  at  that  time.  And  then  one  after- 
noon he  was  discussing  picture  rights  in 
a  publisher's  office  when  a  boy  brought  in  a 
card. 

"I'll  see  him  in  a  few  moments,"  said  the 
publisher.  "Do  you  read  him?"  he  asked 
Monty,  handing  him  the  card. 

Monty  glanced  at  it.  "Do  I  read  him! 
.  .  .  Say,  we'll  give  you  the  thousand  you 
ask  for  those  rights,  but  introduce  me  to 
this  guy!" 

68 


Bolters 


Presently  he  was  shaking  hands  with  An- 
drew. 

"I'd  rather  meet  you  than  any  man  in  the 
world,"  he  said,  "and  that  isn't  the  usual 
line  of  bunk  either.  I'd  give  my  right  eye 
to  talk  with  you  some  time." 

Andrew  looked  Monty  over.  He  liked  his 
keen  lighted  face.  He  liked  the  tilt  of  his 
head.  He  liked  the  honest  admiration  in 
his  eyes. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  talk  with  you  any  night  after 
ten  o'clock,"  he  said,  and  gave  his  address. 

Promptly  at  ten  o'clock  a  few  nights  later 
the  telephone  bell  rang  in  the  Days'  apart- 
ment. It  had  been  snowing  hard  all  afternoon, 
and  Mary's  Mary  had  remained  at  home. 
She  went  listlessly  to  the  telephone. 

"Mr.  Fay  calling,"  she  heard. 

"Who?"  asked  Mary's  Mary. 

"Mr.  Fay." 

She  turned  to  Andrew  and  repeated  the 
message. 

Andrew  answered  with  the  fringes  of  his 
mind:  "I  don't  know  him — some  mistake." 
69 


The  Lucky  Seven 


But  presently  she  turned  again  from  the 
telephone. 

"He  says  you  asked  him  to  call.  He  says 
he  met  you  at  John  Paige  and  Company's." 

Andrew  looked  up  with  a  frown.  "Oh, 
yes,"  he  said,  "but  I  told  him  not  to  come 
until  ten  o'clock." 

"It's  ten  o'clock  now,"  said  Mary's  Mary. 

Andrew  looked  at  his  watch.  "Ask  him 
to  come  up,"  he  said,  wiping  his  pen.  "How 
the  time  gets  away!" 

"Does  it?"  said  Mary's  Mary,  her  lip 
curling  faintly.  A  caller  would  have  been 
exciting  months  ago,  but  that  was  before  she 
had  a  tight  band  around  her  throat  all  the 
time;  before  she  had  dried  up  inside. 

She  gave'  the  message  and  went  to  the 
window.  A  bulky  limousine,  black  and 
glistening,  stood  below.  Its  lights  funneled 
out  ahead  of  it  until  they  joined  and  turned 
the  snow  along  the  curb  to  piles  of  coldly 
blazing  diamonds.  She  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like  to  have  that  great  dark  beast 
waiting  patiently  for  her.  She  tried  to 
70 


Bolters 


imagine  it,  but  gave  it  up  and  watched  the 
chauffeur. 

He  was  so  bundled  in  fur  that  he  too  looked 
like  a  beast — a  big  brown  bear.  He  had 
lighted  a  cigarette,  and  its  faint  glow  sug- 
gested comfort  and  contentment.  How 
wonderful  it  must  be  to  sit  there  like  that 
and  know  that  when  you  pressed  a  button  or 
something — she  didn't  know  just  how  it  was 
done — away  you  would  go,  sailing  through 
the  night,  to  any  part  of  the  city  that  you 
chose ! 

Her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the 
ringing  of  the  apartment  bell  and  Andrew's 
voice  asking  some  one  to  come  in.  She 
turned  from  the  window  to  find  another  fur- 
clad  beast  standing  in  their  little  living-room. 
Its  fur  was  reddish-coloured.  It  looked 
smoother,  softer,  more  luxurious  than  the 
brown  bear  in  the  waiting  car.  It  was. 
That  motor-coat  had  cost  Monty  more  than 
he  cared  to  remember.  He  threw  it  off,  after 
shaking  hands  with  Andrew,  and  turned  to 
Mary's  Mary  as  she  came  forward. 
71 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Mrs.  Day,"  said  Andrew. 

Monty's  savoir  fairs  all  but  fled.  Merely 
beautiful  women  were  part  of  the  machinery 
of  his  trade — but  such  a  pair  of  eyes  were  in 
no  other  face  on  earth! 

That  first  evening,  Monty  listened  to 
Andrew  and  looked,  whenever  he  could,  at 
Mary's  Mary. 

Andrew  talked  with  something  of  the  in- 
sight with  which  he  wrote.  At  first  shyly, 
then  as  Monty  became  less  respectful  and 
ventured  to  acquiesce  or  even  to  disagree,  he 
became  more  vivid  and  took  to  abrupt  ges- 
tures and  pacing  the  floor. 

Mary's  Mary  said  nothing.  She  simply 
sat,  so  it  seemed  to  Monty,  while  Andrew, 
wreathed  in  wonderful  words,  paced  up  and 
down.  Was  she  listening?  He  couldn't  tell. 
Was  she  aware  that  in  her  own  way  she  was 
as  extraordinary  as  Andrew?  That  her  power 
to  move  men  was  as  great — perhaps  greater 
than  his?  Monty  wondered. 

She  left  the  room  silently  at  last  and  re- 
turned later  with  a  tray. 
72 


Bolters 


"I  have  scrambled  eggs  at  this  time  every 
night,"  said  Andrew.  "It's  a  luxury,  of 
course,  but  one  must  stoke  up  a  bit  after  the 
day's  run.  Some  buttered  toast,  if  you  don't 
mind,  Lamb.  This  is  a  special  occasion." 

Monty  grew  dumb  with  wonderment.  So 
scrambled  eggs  were  a  luxury,  and  buttered 
toast  a  matter  of  special  occasions!  The 
biggest  literary  gun  in  the  richest  country 
on  earth  had  just  said  so!  ...  He  thought 
of  his  play  with  a  punch.  He  thought  of  his 
"ideas"  rushed  into  five  thousand  feet  of  film 
that  "got  over  big."  As  he  took  the  first 
mouthful  of  his  scrambled  eggs,  he  felt  a 
warm  prickle  at  the  back  of  his  neck. 

When  Mary's  Mary  brought  in  the  buttered 
toast,  Monty  looked  at  her.  Her  cheeks 
were  crimsoned  by  her  cooking.  Yes,  what 
he  was  eating  was  a  luxury  all  right!  Any 
food  prepared  by  a  "Lamb"  who  "had  it 
over  any  star  on  Broadway  like  a  tent"  was 
easily  that. 

But  what  did  the  Lamb  think  about  it? 

"She  doesn't  think  about  it  at  all,"  thought 
73 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Monty.  "She's  a  bug  on  his  work.  She's 
for  him  so  strong  she  doesn't  know  what 
she's  missing." 

He  held  this  opinion  until  cigarettes  were 
lighted  and  Andrew  took  to  asking  questions. 
In  answering  them  Monty  was  drawn  into  a 
description  of  theatrical  life. 

He  told  of  its  anxieties  and  feverish  excite- 
ment, followed  by  the  long  placid  grind  of 
success  or  the  bitter  despair  of  failure.  Stage 
people  were  fundamentally  democratic,  he 
said,  but  temperament,  always  assumed,  and 
vanity,  always  real,  led  them  into  childish 
jealousy  and  amusing  snobbishness.  He 
mentioned  names  and  cases  in  proof  of  this. 
Awesome  names  they  were,  yet  Monty  rolled 
them  over  his  tongue  with  astonishing  ease, 
and  Mary's  Mary  drank  in  his  words  with 
parted  lips. 

Next  he  treated  great  glowing  mysterious 
Broadway  with  an  easy  contempt  that  was 
fascinating.  He  told  of  its  sudden  fortunes 
and  equally  sudden  poverty,  of  rising  and  fall- 
ing stars.  "Below  its  gilding  and  pose,"  he 
74 


Bolters 


wound    up,    "it's    as   human    as    Cranberry 
Corners." 

Monty  leaned  forward  and  flicked  the 
ashes  from  his  cigarette  into  his  plate.  As 
he  did  so  he  heard  a  tremulous  sigh.  He 
turned  to  the  sound  of  it  and  received  a 
shock.  From  a  white  young  face  a  pair  of 
eyes  blazed  into  his  own.  Such  a  passion 
of  longing  was  in  them  that  Monty  felt  his 
eyelids  quiver  and  droop.  So  the  cooking 
of  scrambled  eggs,  even  for  Andrew  Day, 
did  not  fill  the  bill! 

Almost  in  confusion  he  launched  into  a 
description  of  his  present  business.  He  was 
going  to  California  to  help  in  the  making  of 
an  Egyptian  film,  he  said.  "We'll  fake  the 
temples  and  pyramids,  but  we'll  have  ten 
hippos  and  a  lot  of  barges  and  alligators  for 
the  Nile  stuff.  We've  had  to  give  Cleopatra 
to  May  Gilmore.  Anne  Allen  faints  cold  if 
she  sees  a  snake." 

"Your  life  is  full,  isn't  it?"  said  Andrew, 
when    Monty   rose   to   go.      "I've    enjoyed 
hearing  about  it  immensely." 
75 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"May  I  come  again?"  asked  Monty. 

"Do,"  said  Andrew. 

Mary's  Mary  remained  silent;  but  as  Monty 
took  her  hand  she  gave  him  a  darkly  timid 
glance. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  snakes,"  she  said. 

Monty  smiled  at  Andrew,  who  put  his  arm 
about  Mary's  Mary  and  laughed. 

"That's  a  brave  Lamb,"  he  said.  "Well, 
did  you  like  him?"  he  asked  when  the  door 
had  closed  on  Monty's  keen  face  and  sleek 
black  head. 

"He  was  wonderful!"  said  Mary's  Mary. 

Andrew  was  already  at  his  desk,  sorting 
pages  of  manuscript. 

"Hardly  that,"  he  told  her  absently.  "He's 
entertaining,  though.  I  hope  he  comes  again." 

Mary's  Mary  went  to  the  window  in  time 
to  see  the  big  car  glide  away  through  the 
falling  snow.  Its  tail  light  glowed  red  at  the 
corner  and  was  gone.  In  the  car  sat  a  man 
who  was  conscious  of  a  curious  feeling  of 
expectancy.  What  had  he  a  right  to  expect? 
Nothing,  of  course,  and  yet —  It  had  been 
76 


Bolters 


a  long  time  since  a  woman's  eyes  had  stirred 
him  like  that — a  long  time. 

What  a  child  she  was,  and  the  wife  of 
Andrew  Day!  You  couldn't  beat  that  for  a 
combination.  Not  afraid  of  snakes,  eh? 
Monty  smiled — then  grew  thoughtful.  It 
wasn't  so  absurd,  come  to  think  about  it. 
When  they  looked  like  that,  brains  were 
superfluous.  If  those  eyes  could  be  made 
to  rage,  scream,  implore,  or  sink  to  love 
whispers  before  the  camera!  .  .  .  He 
whistled  softly. 

Back  in  the  room  he  had  just  left  Mary's 
Mary  became  conscious  of  the  whispering 
scratch  of  a  pen.  Andrew  was  tightening 
up  a  few  last  paragraphs.  She  looked  at 
him  silently  for  a  moment.  He  had  put  on 
his  green  eye-shade,  and  his  hair  was  sticking 
up  the  way  it  always  did. 

Mary's  Mary  crossed  the  room,  opened  the 
bedroom  door,  entered  and  closed  the  door 
softly  behind  her.  It  was  pitch  dark  in  the 
bedroom,  but  she  did  not  light  a  light.  She 
moved  forward  a  few  steps  in  the  darkness 
77 


The  Lucky  Seven 


until  she  felt  the  bed  with  her  knees.  Then 
she  crumpled  down  and  became  a  shaking 
heap  with  her  face  deep  in  a  pillow. 

Monty  called  a  week  later  promptly  at 
ten  o'clock  as  before.  He  seemed  like  an 
old  friend  somehow.  He  made  himself  at 
home  at  once  by  asking  for  a  highball. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Andrew,  "I  never  use 
it." 

"May  I  send  for  some?"  asked  Monty. 

Andrew  hesitated  a  moment.  "Why,  I'll 
send  for  it,"  he  said  doubtfully,  "or  rather, 
I'll  go  out  and  get  it.  I  think  I've  seen  a 
place  on — " 

"Forget  it,"  said  Monty.  He  went  to 
the  window,  opened  it  and  stuck  out  his 
head. 

"William,"  he  called.    "Oh,  William!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  they  heard. 

"Get  a  bottle  of  Scotch  and  some  soda. 
Bring  it  up  to  a  hundred  and  three,"  directed 
Monty.  He  closed  the  window  and  smiled 
at  Andrew.  "I've  got  my  nerve,"  he  said, 
"but  I  sure  need  a  drink  to-night.  I  went 
78 


Bolters 


to  the  mat  with  the  board  of  censors  this 
afternoon.  They  cut  a  thousand  feet  out 
of  poor  old  Sappho." 

A  few  moments  later  Mary's  Mary  re- 
lieved the  fuzzy  brown  bear  of  some  bottles 
and  presently  Monty  was  sipping  his  highball 
while  Andrew  rocked  on  his  heels  and  toes 
before  the  absurd  fireless  fireplace  and  talked. 

He  chuckled  over  the  astonishing  figure  of 
America's  most  popular  novelist,  who  had 
been  made  by  a  million-dollar  advertising 
campaign  and  who  could  not  have  written 
one  grammatical  page  if  he  were  offered 
another  million  to  do  so. 

And  speaking  of  advertising — thanks  to 
it,  thousands  of  worthless  periodicals  could  be 
distributed  for  less  than  the  cost  of  the  paper 
on  which  they  were  printed!  The  one-cent 
daily  newspapers,  for  instance,  blindly  parti- 
san in  politics,  molding  opinion  in  every  city 
and  hamlet,  were  responsible  for  most  of  the 
human  parasites  crawling  on  the  body  politic. 

A  free  press!  Andrew  laughed  aloud. 
Free  to  offer  filthy  insinuations  about  the 
79 


The  Lucky  Seven 


motives  of  any  public  servant,  no  matter  how 
efficient  he  might  be;  or  approve  the  every 
act  of  some  statesman  who  should  be  either 
behind  bars  or  a  plow.  The  imbecile  press 
of  a  press-taught  people  was  responsible  for 
the  fact  that  democracy  produced  self-mis- 
government  in  the  most  democratic  and 
worst  governed  country  in  the  world.  He 
was  writing  on  the  subject  just  now.  "Just 
when  you  came  in,"  he  said,  glancing  at  his 
desk. 

"It  was  ten  o'clock,"  said  Mary's  Mary 
quickly. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Andrew,  and  re- 
turned to  his  rocking  and  his  theme.  Then, 
as  he  talked  on,  he  seemed  to  become  more  and 
more  unconscious  of  his  listeners.  He  seemed 
in  fact  to  forget  them  entirely.  It  became 
apparent  to  Monty  that  he  was  doing  nothing 
to  aid  the  smooth  mechanism  of  Andrew's 
mind  to  become  audible.  He  only  sat  and 
smoked  and  sipped  his  highball,  as  silent 
as  the  silent  Mary's  Mary,  while  Andrew 
thought  aloud.  .  .  . 

80 


Bolters 


At  last  Andrew  too  grew  silent.  He  stared 
straight  before  him  for  a  moment,  mumbled 
an  excuse  and  went  to  his  desk.  They  heard 
the  click  of  the  desk-light,  followed  by  the 
scratching  of  a  pen. 

Monty  was  delighted.  It  was  great  to  get 
this  unexpected  close-up  of  a  genius.  He 
smiled  into  Mary's  Mary's  deep  unsmiling  eyes. 

"Does  he  do  that  often?"  he  asked. 

The  faint  curl  of  her  lip  was  not  a  smile  in 
return. 

"He  never  does  anything  else,"  she  in- 
formed him  in  a  low  tone.  "He  doesn't  care 
for — people." 

"And  you?"  asked  Monty,  dropping  his 
voice  to  the  level  of  hers. 

"I  love  people,"  said  Mary's  Mary. 

"Well,  what  do  you  do  about  it?" 

"I  sit  and — try  not  to  scream." 

Monty  explored  her  face  with  one  swift 
glance  and  dared.  He  placed  his  hand  lightly 
over  hers. 

"You  poor,  dear,  sweet  kid!"  he  breathed. 
"Do  you  know  what  a  wonder  you  are?" 
81 


The  Lucky  Seven 


He  had  risked  her  instant  withdrawing,  but 
what  he  received  was  far  more  staggering 
than  a  reproof. 

"Oh,  yes,'*  said  Mary's  Mary  simply. 

Monty  stared  for  an  instant,  then  rose  to 
go.  He  wanted  to  think  a  little,  undisturbed 
by  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Driving  home  he  did  so. 

His  admiration  for  her  husband  did  not 
enter  into  the  matter  at  all.  Monty  believed 
that  sex  relationship  could  not  be  governed 
by  vows.  In  his  world  marriages  were  seldom 
more  than  episodes.  Andrew  Day  was  a 
mind,  not  a  man.  To  him  his  wonder  wife 
meant  only  scrambled  eggs  and  patient  listen- 
ing— Monty  was  convinced  of  that  now. 
Well,  greatness  was  apt  to  be  like  that — 
self-sufficient,  self-absorbed. 

And  was  she  worth  more  than  she  was 
getting?  Was  there  a  woman's  soul  behind 
her  unbelievable  eyes  and  childlike  quality  of 
mind?  Monty  felt  that  there  was,  or  why 
had  she  stirred  him  so?  "I'd  like  to  doll  her 
up  and  take  her  out  a  few  times,"  he  thought. 
"Wouldn't  she  kill  'em  dead!" 
82 


Bolters 


His  wish  was  granted  early  the  following 
week.  He  telephoned  one  morning  and  asked 
the  Days  to  help  make  up  a  theatre  party 
Monday  night. 

Andrew  refused  promptly,  without  looking 
up  from  his  work. 

"Will  you  wait  a  minute?"  said  Mary's 
Mary's  voice. 

"Sure,"  said  Monty,  "no  hurry." 

Andrew  looked  up  into  a  marble  face  with 
a  red  line  for  a  mouth  a  moment  later. 

"If  you  don't  go,  after  all  these  months, 
it's — wicked,"  said  Mary's  Mary. 

"Why,  Lamb,  sweet,"  said  Andrew,  "I'm 
changing  the  key  for  the  last  three  chapters. 
It  must  tighten  here  and  hold  that  way  to  the 
end.  If  I  let  go  just  now  it  might  get  away 
from  me." 

Mary's  Mary  did  not  move — her  lips  did, 
however. 

"I  don't  give  a  damn  what  it  does!"  she 
said. 

Andrew's  mouth  opened,  closed  and  opened 
again  as  a  burst  of  sound  came  from  it.  He 
83 


The  Lucky  Seven 


rocked  back  and  forth  in  his  chair  until  at 
last  he  looked  up  with  wet  eyes. 

"Oh,  Lamb,"  he  said,  "it's  good  to  laugh 
like  that!" 

"Is  it?"  said  Mary's  Mary.  "Well,  are 
you  going?" 

"Going!"  said  Andrew.  "After  that!  Of 
course  I'm  going." 

When  Monday  night  arrived  Mary's  Mary 
gave  him  an  early  dinner  which  she  never 
tasted,  then  gave  herself  to  the  absorbing 
task  of  dressing.  Andrew  went  to  his  desk. 

There  were  times  when  his  mind  became 
a  white  fire  in  which  the  gold  of  his  thought 
was  freed  of  alloys  by  a  process  almost  me- 
chanical. At  least  he  was  conscious  of  no 
mental  effort  in  its  accomplishment.  Even 
his  pen  did  its  humble  transcribing  as  though 
held  by  other  fingers.  Such  moods — if  that 
was  what  they  were — were  inexplicable.  They 
could  not  be  summoned  or  prolonged  by 
will-power.  They  came  unheralded  and  seized 
their  willing  victim,  who  became  for  the  time 
a  mere  channel  through  which  the  high  tide 
84 


Bolters 


of  his  creative  powers  flowed  smoothly  into 
syntax.  To-night  he  anticipated  nothing  of 
the  sort.  He  had  time  to  glance  over  the 
opening  paragraphs  of  his  last  chapter;  that 
was  all. 

He  picked  up  his  pen  automatically,  dotted 
an  it  changed  a  comma  to  a  semicolon,  took 
out  an  adjective  and  replaced  it.  Suddenly, 
the  next  as  yet  unwritten  paragraph  blazed 
out  in  his  mind.  His  pen  leaped  to  record  it. 
It  was  good  to  be  in  the  vein,  with  his  most 
vital  chapter  confronting  him.  It  would  be 
perfect,  if  one  of  his  "high-water  moods," 
as  he  called  them,  should  strike  him  now. 
One  of  them  did! 

When  Monty  arrived  an  hour  later  and  had 
heard  what  should  have  been  his  conven- 
tional greeting  die  to  a  gurgle  at  the  sight  of 
Mary's  Mary  in  rose  velvet  and  white  fur 
he  turned  to  the  sound  of  a  driven  pen  and 
saw  a  figure  in  an  ill-fitting  dress  coat  humped 
over  the  desk. 

Andrew's  collar  was  a  pulpy  rag.  His  face 
was  wet  with  sweat.  His  hair  was  in  a  frenzy 
85 


The  Lucky  Seven 


of  disorder.  He  looked  up  presently,  frowned 
unseeingly  at  Monty  for  a  moment,  then : 

"Take  the  Lamb — favor  to  me,"  he  said 
and  waved  them  toward  the  door. 

Monty  did  not  recover  himself  until  he  had 
settled  back  in  the  semiprivacy  of  the  limou- 
sine with  Mary's  Mary  at  his  side.  As  they 
turned  the  corner  she  swayed  against  him 
like  a  warm  flower. 

"It's  good  to  be  alive,  isn't  it?"  he  asked 
softly,  tucking  her  arm  under  his  own. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary's  Mary. 

"And  young." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Do  you  know  yoxi're  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  New  York  to-night?" 

Mary's  Mary  was  regarding  the  stolid, 
friendly  back  of  the  big  brown  bear,  who 
was  her  genie  now.  She  gave  a  sigh  of  hap- 
piness. 

"I've  had  them  in  the  closet  all  the  time," 
she  said. 

"In  the  closet?"  Monty  repeated,  then  he 
caught  her  meaning  and  chuckled.  "Why, 
86 


Bolters 


you  couldn't  keep  them  in  the  closet,  could 
you,  old  dear?" 

Mary's  Mary  withdrew  her  arm  from  his. 

"Why  couldn't  I?"  she  asked. 

"Your  eyes,"  said  Monty,  "your  wonderful 
eyes,  and  your  hair  and  sweet  mouth  and  chin 
and  throat — how  could  you?" 

The  eyes  he  spoke  of  became  faintly 
troubled.  "I  don't  think  you'd  better  talk 
like  that." 

"All  right,"  said  Monty  promptly,  "then 
I  won't — but  I  can't  help  thinking  it,  can  I?" 

"No,"  Mary's  Mary  admitted,  "you  can't 
help  what  you  think,  I  suppose." 

"And  neither  can  you,"  said  Monty. 
"Just  now  you're  thinking  that  you're  glad 
I'm  thinking  what  I  think." 

Mary's  Mary  thought  this  complicated 
statement  over  for  a  moment.  She  felt  her 
cheeks  grow  hot.  Why,  how  did  he  know 
that? 

It  would  have  taken  Andrew  in  the  grip 
of  a  high-water  mood  to  describe  her  sen- 
sations that  evening. 

87 


The  Lucky  Seven 


She  met  people,  wonderful  people,  dozens 
of  them.  Monty  seemed  to  know  every  one. 
At  supper  men  kept  coming  to  the  table 
where  their  party  was  seated  and  looking  at 
her  even  while  talking  to  the  other  women. 

Some  of  them  gave  her  her  first  dancing- 
lessons,  and  nearly  all  talked  as  Monty  had 
talked  in  the  motor-car,  so  perhaps  that  was 
all  right  after  all.  And  it  was  wonderful  to 
know  that  the  big  brown  bear  was  waiting 
patiently  to  take  her  home.  She  thought 
of  it  all  evening,  and  so  it  was  startling  to  be 
called  a  bear  herself. 

It  was  done  by  a  grey-haired  man  who 
looked  old,  but  couldn't  have  been,  judging 
from  the  way  he  acted.  He  drank  a  lot  of 
champagne,  more  than  six  glasses,  she  had 
noticed.  When  he  asked  her  to  dance  with 
him,  they  didn't  get  on  very  well.  Suddenly 
he  tightened  his  arms  so  that  she  was  quite 
close  to  him  and  said,  "Kid,  you're  a  bear!" 

For  a  moment  she  didn't  know  why  he 
should  call  her  a  bear.  Then  she  remembered 
what  bears  did.  Of  course,  she  had  been 
88 


Bolters 


clinging  to  him  because  she  danced  so  badly 
and  he  seemed  wobbly  on  his  feet,  but  it  was 
horrid  to  mention  it.  He  nearly  fell  down 
then,  and  she  went  back  to  the  table  and 
did  not  try  to  dance  again. 

Going  home  in  the  motor  her  cup  of  joy 
was  shattered  to  bits.  She  had  tried  to  tell 
Monty  a  little  of  how  much  the  evening  had 
meant. 

"I'm  glad,  old  dear,"  he  said.  "I  wish  we 
could  do  it  again.  Don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary's  Mary. 

"I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  go  to  California 
next  week." 

"How  long  will  you  be  gone?"  asked  Mary's 
Mary  faintly. 

"About  three  months.  I'll  look  you  up 
as  soon  as  I  get  back,  if  you  want  me  to.  Do 
you?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Do  you,  old  dear?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

Monty  bent  forward,  peering  at  her.  As 
they  passed  an  arc-light  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
89 


The  Lucky  Seven 


were  brimming  wells,  that  the  sparkle  of 
tears  was  on  her  cheeks.  Quite  uncon- 
sciously he  put  his  arm  back  of  her  shoulders 
in  a  sudden,  tender  gesture. 

"What  is  it,  old  dear?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go.  Oh,  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  ...  my  only  friend!" 

Monty's  arm  tightened  about  her,  but  he 
could  not  have  told  whether  it  was  the  pres- 
sure of  his  arm  or  a  lurch  of  the  car  or  her 
sinking  toward  him  that  brought  her  head  on 
his  shoulder  with  her  breath  warming  his 
cheek. 

She  was  the  sweetest  thing  he  had  ever 
held  in  his  arms — he  knew  that.  Her  lips, 
when  he  found  them  with  his  own,  were 
sweet.  So  was  her  breath  and  the  odor  of 
her  skin  and  her  hair.  .  .  . 

The  car  stopped.  The  brown  bear  was 
sliding  from  his  seat.  Mary's  Mary  was 
home  once  more. 

She  heard  a  husky  whisper  as  she  straight- 
ened up:  "Meet  me  for  tea  at  four  o'clock 
to-morrow." 

90 


Bolters 


"No,  oh,  no!"  she  said  wildly,  "Jet  me  get 
out!" 

The  brown  bear  was  lumbering  around  the 
car  to  the  door  at  the  curb  side. 

"Please!  Please!"  said  Monty,  seizing  her 
hand  as  she  held  him  away  from  her. 

"I  can't,  I  mustn't.    Let  me  get  out!" 

The  brown  bear  was  at  the  door. 

"Just  to  say  good-bye.    Never  after  that. 
Will  you?  ...  The  Ritz  at  four!" 

The  door  opened.  Monty  climbed  out 
and  took  a  shaking  hand  in  one  that  shook 
as  he  helped  her  to  the  sidewalk. 

The  elevator  boy  stood  in  the  dimly 
lighted  hall.  The  brown  bear  stood  at  at- 
tention by  his  car. 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come,  Mrs.  Day. 
Don't  forget  to-morrow  at  four.  Good  night." 

How  could  he  talk  like  that,  she  thought, 
when  the  world  had  just  turned  upside 
down.  .  .  . 

Andrew   was   asleep   when   Mary's   Mary 
opened  the  bedroom  door.     She  undressed 
in  the  living-room,  ventured  to  steal  in  and 
91 


The  Lucky  Seven 


claim  the  extreme  edge  of  the  bed,  then  lay 
wide-eyed,  listening  to  his  untroubled  breath- 
ing. 

Daylight  drove  away  the  vague  horror  that 
had  hung  above  her  all  night.  At  noon  she 
wondered  whether  after  all  it  would  be  such 
a  terrible  thing  to  go  and  say  good-bye  for- 
ever. At  two  o'clock  she  looked  up  the 
address  of  the  Ritz  in  the  telephone-book. 
At  four  o'clock  she  slipped  through  the 
Forty-sixth  Street  entrance  of  the  hotel  and 
found  Monty  waiting. 

When  they  were  seated  in  a  quiet  corner  of 
the  tea-room,  she  explained  that  she  had 
come  to  tell  him  that  they  must  never  meet 
again.  Then,  having  said  good-bye  forever 
for  ten  minutes  or  so,  they  decided  that  since 
Monty  was  going  to  put  a  continent  between 
them  in  a  week  it  would  be  safe  to  have  tea 
together  once  or  twice  before  he  left.  This 
decision,  after  the  awful  moments  just  passed, 
brought  such  a  wave  of  relief  that  they  grew 
speechless  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 
until  it  was  time  to  go. 
92 


Bolters 


"I'll  send  you  home  in  the  car,"  said 
Monty. 

"No,"  said  Mary's  Mary,  "I'd  rather 
not." 

"Why,  listen,  sweetheart,"  said  Monty, 
"that  old  boat  is  yours  if  you  want  it.  Don't 
you  understand?" 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  Mary's  Mary.  "He 
might  be  at  the  window." 

So  Mary's  Mary  did  not  sail  home  from  the 
Ritz  in  Monty's  boat  to  cook  Andrew's 
dinner.  And  she  might  have  done  so  safely, 
because  Andrew  was  not  at  the  window.  He 
was  putting  on  paper  the  last  few  paragraphs 
of  the  last  chapter  of  the  last  novel  he  would 
ever  write. 

That  same  afternoon  a  more  seaworthy 
boat — a  transatlantic  liner — was  coaxed  and 
pulled  and  pushed  by  fussy  little  tugs  into 
her  slip  at  Hoboken. 

A  number  of  reporters  were  among  those 

who  waited  for  the  gang-plank  to  span  a 

strip  of  sullen  water  to  the  vessel's  crowded 

deck.     Quiet  among  the  shrieking,   waving 

93 


The  Lucky  Seven 


people  on  the  dock  they  stood,  and  quiet 
among  the  shrieking,  waving  people  on  the 
deck  stood  the  man  they  had  come  to  see. 

He  was  a  little  man — a  little  bird  man; 
shy  as  a  wood-thrush,  with  the  overhanging 
brow  of  an  owl  and  the  bright  pecking  eye 
of  a  hen.  Some  twenty  volumes  he  had 
written  would  endure  through  coming  cen- 
turies more  certainly  than  mountains. 

"Why  have  I  come  to  the  States?"  he  said 
when  the  reporters  had  surrounded  him. 
"Well,  let  me  see  .  .  .  I've  come  to  look  at  the 
Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado  and  talk  with 
Andrew  Day." 

And  so,  in  the  daily  press  which  he  deplored, 
Andrew  was  made — in  a  material  sense,  that 
is.  Every  paper  in  New  York  printed  the 
statement  of  "England's  greatest  writer"  the 
following  day.  Papers  from  coast  to  coast 
copied  it. 

Within  twenty-four  hours  New  York  and 

Boston  were  dipping  into  Andrew  for  casual 

quotations.     Within  a  week  they  had  read 

him  aloud  at  a  meeting  of  the  Shakespeare 

94 


Bolters 


Club  of  Dayton,  Ohio;  he  had  been  slipped 
into  the  Modern  Classics  course  of  the  East 
High  School  of  Des  Moines,  Iowa;  and  the 
Society  of  Arts  and  Letters,  of  Oakland, 
California,  which  had  listened  to  a  lecture  by 
Miss  Esther  Dubois  Robinson  of  Redlands, 
knew  that  while  America's  master  of  prose 
was  a  "passionate  realist,"  he  was  also  "a 
mystic  with  a  tendency  toward  uncolourful 
symbolism."  This  last  would  have  interested 
Andrew  had  he  heard  it. 

But  he  did  not  hear  it.  He  heard  nothing 
of  what  was  going  on  until  the  afternoon  when 
he  took  the  typewritten  manuscript  of  his 
finished  novel  to  his  publisher.  He  was 
startled  when  that  heretofore  unenthusiastic 
gentleman,  after  taking  the  manuscript  from 
him  as  though  it  were  some  rare  and  perish- 
able flower  that  might  wither  at  a  touch, 
seized  him  by  both  hands  and  all  but  em- 
braced him. 

Andrew  learned  then  that  an  initial  order 
for  a  ten  thousand  edition  of  his  complete 
works  had  been  changed  during  the  press  run 
95 


The  Lucky  Seven 


to  twenty  thousand  and  again  to  thirty 
thousand,  and  that  orders  were  pouring  in  at 
the  rate  of  five  hundred  a  day  and — did  he 
want  anything — a  check,  perhaps?  Could 
he  use  a  few  thousand  just  now? 

Andrew  found  himself  walking  up  Fifth 
Avenue,  seeing  not  one  soul  of  those  who 
thronged  the  sidewalk.  He  did  not  see  the 
parade  of  motors  in  the  street  or  the  buildings 
which  he  passed,  or  the  strip  of  winter  sky 
between. 

Not  for  himself —  Oh,  no,  his  work  was 
enough.  But  the  other  half  of  him,  the 
precious  other  half  of  him;  so  unutterably 
sweet,  so  uncomplaining,  so  faithful  she  had 
been.  .  .  .  Cooking  and  cleaning  and  sweep- 
ing! ...  By  God,  that  was  all  over!  .  .  . 
Denied  everything — from  the  first.  .  .  .  Now 
he'd  show  them!  More  clothes  than  she 
could  wear,  and  some  jewels,  too.  .  .  .  And 
their  house;  a  dear  house  among  trees,  with 
green  grass,  lots  of  it,  and  a  garden —  A 
river  not  far  away,  perhaps.  And  in  the  house 
a  big  room  with  a  log  fire,  a  charming  room — 
96 


Bolters 


not  too  masculine — that  would  set  her  off. 
A  study  for  himself,  of  course — any  place 
would  do  for  that.  But  that  other  room — 
the  big  one  up-stairs  on  the  south  side  with 
plenty  of  sunshine  streaming  in —  It  must 
have  scenes  from  Mother  Goose  on  the  walls — 
murals.  Perhaps  Parrish  would  do  it.  ... 
A  boy  first,  a  serious  boy  with  a  mind.  And 
then  a  girl,  a  fairy  girl  with  eyes  like  her 
mother's.  And  then  another  boy,  not  quite 
so  serious  as  his  big  brother — more  harum- 
scarum! 

But,  good  heavens ! — she  didn't  know !  And 
here  he  was  mooning  along,  keeping  it  all  to 
himself.  Andrew  wheeled  about  and  strode 
down  the  avenue. 

Mary's  Mary  was  not  at  home  when  he  got 
there.  She'd  be  back  soon,  he  thought. 
They'd  go  out  somewhere  for  dinner.  No 
more  dinners  here — not  in  this  pitiful  place. 
Well,  it  had  served.  It  hadn't  been  so  bad. 
It  had  the  work  to  its  credit,  and  they  had 
had  each  other.  No  one  else  in  the  three 
years — nearly  four  it  was.  Oh,  yes,  that 
97 


The  Lucky  Seven 


fellow  Fay.  Nice  chap,  too !  Attractive.  He 
was  going  west  to-day.  She  had  met  him 
somewhere  and  he  had  told  her  so. 

The  apartment  door-bell  rang.  'Tor- 
gotten  her  key,  of  course,"  thought  Andrew, 
smiling  to  himself.  "All  right,  Lamb!"  he 
called.  .  .  .  He  would  make  her  sit  in  his 
lap  while  he  told  her. 

It  was  not  the  Lamb.  It  was  a  messenger 
boy,  small,  puny,  pale. 

"Paid,"  he  said,  but  Andrew  gave  him  a 
quarter. 

"For  you,  Major!" 

"T'anks." 

Andrew  closed  the  door  and  tore  open  the 
envelope,  which  was  addressed  to  him. 

He  read  his  message — all  of  it;  but  certain 
words,  more  venomous  than  the  rest,  struck 
at  him  like  snakes. 

:<  .  .  .  Nothing  to  you.  .  .  .  Califor- 
nia. .  .  . 

"Monty  Fay.  .  .  .  Everything  to  him. 
.  .  .  Good-bye.  .  .  ." 

The  night  had  passed  and  daylight  was 
98 


Bolters 


greying  the  windows  and  sparrows  were 
twittering  sleepily  somewhere  outside  before 
Andrew  thought  of  touching  something  that 
Mary's  Mary  might  have  touched  just  before 
she  left. 

What  if  there  was  a  little  warmth  from  her 
hand  in  some  inanimate  thing  somewhere  in 
these  rooms!  He  could  press  his  face  against 
it  and  perhaps  the  pain  would  stop.  .  .  . 
The  door-knob,  of  course!  He  went  to  it. 
It  was  as  cold  as  ice.  Everything  was,  for 
that  matter.  They  turned  off  the  steam  at 
midnight.  What  good  was  a  door-knob,  any- 
way? It  only  let  people — out. 

New  insides  were  what  he  needed.  Every- 
thing had  been  wrenched  loose  and  torn  away, 
leaving  him  hollow.  .  .  .  And  he  couldn't 
find  new  insides  again.  .  .  .  Never!  never! 

Why  not  go  to  the  bedroom?  Why  not 
stretch  himself  on  the  bed  where  that  soft 
warm  body — part  of  his  body — had  been — 
last  night?  He  tried  it.  .  .  .  The  bed  was 
hard  and  cold  and  empty. 

He  wandered  to  the  kitchenette.  It  was 
99 


The  Lucky  Seven 


growing  lighter  now.  He  could  see  quite 
well.  There  was  the  stove,  over  which  her 
cheeks  had  grown  so  warmly  pink  so  many 
times.  He  touched  its  slaty  top.  The  stove 
was  colder  than  his  numb  and  shaking  fingers. 

He  turned  to  the  shelves  of  dishes.  There 
was  the  blue-and-white  platter.  It  was 
chipped  a  little  at  the  edges.  It  too  was  icy 
cold,  he  discovered.  And  there  was  a  bottle 
of  that  terrible  chili-sauce  she  had  made  last 
summer.  She  had  followed  Aunt  Netty's 
recipe  "exactly" — so  it  must  have  been  the 
tomatoes.  Next  to  the  chili -sauce  was  a 
bottle  of  olives.  Next  to  the  olives  was  a 
bottle  of— 

Now,  how  did  that  get  there?  .  .  .  A  sudden 
spasm  shook  him.  Then  his  blue  lips  twisted 
into  a  smile  as  he  stretched  his  hand  to  the 
bottle. 

"Well,"  said  Andrew  aloud,  "he's  left  me 
this!  .  .  ." 

Two  hours  later  the  night  boy,  still  on 
duty,  was  twitching  and  swaying  on  his  stool 
in  the  elevator.  His  subconscious  mind  was 
100 


Bolters 


using  a  dream  as  a  vehicle  in  which  to  bear 
him  to  the  far  jungle  of  his  naked,  black 
ancestors.  Suddenly  the  beating  of  tom- 
toms and  the  throb  of  war-drums  grew  more 
insistent,  more  metallic.  They  were  calling 
the  night  boy — not  to  the  leaping,  greasy 
dancers  about  the  camp-fires,  but  to  the 
precise  duties  of  his  present  bitter  environ- 
ment. The  elevator  bell  was  ringing. 

He  opened  his  sleep-drenched  eyes,  rolled 
them  at  the  floor  register,  pushed  a  lever  and 
ascended  creakingly  to  number  three. 

Andrew  stood  in  the  hall  with  an  empty 
bottle  in  his  hand. 

"You  my  frien'?"  he  inquired. 

The  pleasant  vision  of  "two  bits"  changing 
hands  brought  a  prompt  reply. 

"Yessuh." 

Andrew  held  out  his  bottle:  "Get  fi'  six 
more  li'  that.  Gres  thing  in  worP.  Only 
thing  kee'  you  warm  insi'  when  insize  gone." 

The  night  boy  accepted  the  statement  and 
the  bottle.  He  examined  the  label  on  the 
latter. 

101 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Can'  git  no  Scotch  now,"  he  said.  "Am* 
no  bah  open  dis  owuh.  Git  you  a  lil  rye  at  a 
drug-sto',  mebbe." 

Andrew  produced  a  wad  of  crumpled  bills 
with  some  difficulty.  He  passed  them  through 
the  elevator  door. 

"Wan*  same  thing,"  he  insisted.  "Special 
bran'  frien'-a-mine  lef  for  me.  Took  insize 
— lef  this.  .  .  .  Wan'  same  thing." 

The  night  boy  folded  the  bills  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket.  "Jack's  open  mebby. 
Got  t'  take  a  taxi  go  'way  on  up  there." 

"All  ri',"  Andrew  agreed.  "Wan'  same 
thing."  The  elevator  began  to  sink.  "Hole 
on!"  said  Andrew  suddenly.  "Forgot  'por- 
tant  thing." 

The  night  boy  threw  over  the  lever  and 
remained  stationary  with  his  head  just  above 
the  level  of  the  hall  floor. 

Andrew  wavered,  caught  the  elevator  door, 
and  straightened  up.  He  poked  an  im- 
pressive ringer  in  the  direction  of  the  white 
eyeballs  staring  up  at  him. 

"Piece  'f  'dvice." 

102 


Bolters 


"Yessuh." 

"Never  let  a  bol'er  get  hungry!  .  .  . 
Un'erstan'?" 

"Yessuh." 

The  elevator  with  the  night  boy  sank  out 
of  sight. 

Andrew  stood  a  moment  peering  earnestly 
down  the  elevator  shaft,  then  turned  and 
lurched  into  the  apartment.  There  was  a 
half-filled  glass  on  the  table.  His  hand 
fumbled  for  it. 

"Or  thirs'y,"  he  muttered,  and  managed  to 
get  the  glass  to  his  li] 


II 

OPUS  43,  NUMBER  6 


n 

OPUS  43,  NUMBER  6 

I 

A  SHORT  time  ago,  if  you  reckon  in 
centuries,  Joshua  issued  a  peremptory 
order  to  Old  Sol,  who  meekly  obeyed.  I 
concede  this  to  be  something  of  a  feat.  It  has 
been  surpassed,  however. 

It  was  only  yesterday  that  a  Scandinavian 
gentleman  sat  down  one  winter  day  and  made 
some  marks  on  a  piece  of  paper.  When  he 
finished  the  sun  was  going  down  blood-red 
across  the  snow;  the  shutters  chattered  in  the 
icy  wind;  the  fire,  neglected,  had  gone  out 
and  the  room  was  bitter  cold.  But  the  heart 
and  soul  of  the  Scandinavian  gentleman  were 
aflame.  He  scorned  mere  material  warmth. 
He  took  the  marks  he  had  made  to  the 
piano. 

Then  as  his  fingers  touched  the  keys  the 
107 


The  Lucky  Seven 


room  grew  balmy.  It  became  fragrant  with 
the  breath  of  newborn  violets.  Brooks 
laughed.  Birds  sang.  Butterflies  flashed 
in  the  sunlight.  A  million  lovers  met  and 
clung  and  kissed — for  spring  had  come. 

Now  Joshua  merely  arrested  the  sun's 
attention  for  a  few  hours.  The  Scandinavian 
gentleman  turned  the  solar  system  topsy- 
turvy. 

Joshua  failed  to  establish,  for  the  benefit 
of  a  skeptical  age,  a  proof  of  his  accomplish- 
ment. The  Scandinavian  gentleman  has  left 
the  marks  he  made  that  winter  day  behind 
him.  They  are  called  Opus  43,  Number  6. 
Their  magic  is  undiminished.  It  was  used 
quite  recently  by  Leopold  Vladimar  Sczer- 
crow,  of  Hungary.  The  facts  in  the  case  are 
as  follows : 

Leopold  came  to  New  York  in  the  month 
of  January.  In  the  good  ship  Deutschland 
he  had  a  safe  passage  and  a  fearful  case  of 
mal  de  mer.  He  disembarked  feebly  and 
stared  about  him  in  bewilderment. 

To  have  the  hero  land  and  stare  in  be- 
108 


Opus  4% >   Number  6 

wilderment  is  the  time-hallowed  beginning 
of  the  immigrant  story.  Let  me  hasten  to 
say  that  Leopold  was  not  an  immigrant. 
Though  he  had  come  to  the  United  States 
to  seek  his  fortune,  and  would  work  with 
his  hands  to  accomplish  it,  he  lacked  a 
certain  aroma  that  is  the  olfactory  guaranty 
of  the  Simon-pure  immigrant. 

Leopold,  therefore,  was  only  a  pianist. 
He  had  been  decoyed  from  Budapest  by 
Max  Blumschein,  impresario  and  agent,  and 
his  look  of  bewilderment  was  occasioned  by 
the  absence  of  Blumschein  from  the  scene 
of  his  arrival. 

His  illness  had  kept  him  in  his  state- 
room during  the  voyage.  He  had  become 
acquainted  with  none  of  his  fellow-passengers, 
and  he  now  stood  alone  in  the  midst  of  a 
shrieking  babble  of  greetings,  no  word  of 
which  he  could  understand. 

At  last  he  thought  of  Blumschein's  letter  in 

his  pocket.     He  moved  slowly  to  the  pier 

entrance  and  found  the  driver  of  a  taxicab. 

He  pointed  to  the  letterhead,  climbed  de- 

109 


The  Lucky  Seven 


jectedly  into  the  taxicab  and  was  whirled 
swiftly  away. 

A  few  moments  later  Max  Blumschein 
looked  up  from  the  framing  of  a  subtle 
contract. 

"Now  vat  de  hell  do  you  vant?"  he  snapped. 

A  card  was  laid  on  his  desk.  He  gazed  at 
it  a  moment  with  bulging  eyes. 

"Lieber  Gattl"  he  said  at  last.  "I  forgot 
him  gomblete.  Id  all  gomes  from  dese  tamn' 
interrubtions;  all  de  time  id's  interrubtions — 
interrubtions !  If  I  gollegt  von  idea  together, 
in  gomes  somebody  und  sgatters  id.  Vy  are 
you  standing  dere  mit  your  mouth  open? 
Show  him  in,  addlepade!" 

Leopold  was  shown  in.  He  was  still  suffer- 
ing from  seasickness.  His  pale  face  was  paler 
than  usual.  His  dark  eyes  were  black  caverns 
of  woe.  Blumschein  noted  these  symptoms 
with  approval. 

"Disbebtic!"  he  thought.     "He  can  play 

dings  in  F  minor.     De  press  agend  vill  call 

his  bellyache  a  segred  sorrow."     Aloud  he 

said:    "Ten  tousand  pardons,  my  dear  mees- 

110 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

der — er — Meesder — er —  I  meestoog  your 
goming  by  von  day.  I  t'oughd  it  was  to- 
morrow yed.  Ten  tousand  pardons,  und 
velcome  to  Ameriga!  You  vill  haf  a  splendid 
sugcess.  Nefer  have  I  seen  handsomer  billing 
dan  has  been  done  already  for  you  in  Gleve- 
lant,  Zinzinnadi,  Shigawgo,  und  oder  poinds. 
I  have  pud  you  out  as  Vladimar,  dropping — 
er — de  lasd  name,  as  vas  done  in  Vienna. 
Haf  you  segured  aggommodations  in  New 
York  yed?" 

Leopold  smiled  wanly. 

"I  speak  no  English,"  he  said  in  French. 

French  was  beyond  Blumschein.  He  bel- 
lowed for  "Feligs!"  who  duly  appeared  to  act 
as  interpreter. 

Blumschein  became  more  and  more  de- 
lighted with  his  new  virtuoso  as  the  interview 
progressed.  Leopold,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  with  half-closed  eyes,  agreed  wearily 
to  everything  suggested. 

"Never  haf  I  handled  an  ardisd  mit  such 
an  ideal  disbosition,"  thought  the  agent; 
but  he  came  presently  on  a  snag.  "Haf  him 
111 


The  Lucky  Seven 


sign  dis  abbreciation  of  de  Veelman  piano, 
Feligs,  before  I  take  him  to  his  hodel,"  said 
Blumschein,  dipping  pen  in  ink. 

The  interpreter  explained.  Leopold  opened 
his  eyes  and  answered  briefly. 

"He  says  he  never  heard  of  it,"  said  the 
interpreter. 

"Tell  him— vot  of  id?"  directed  Blum- 
schien.  "Tell  him  he  geds  five  hundred  gash 
for  id." 

"He  says,"  came  the  interpretation,  "that 
he  does  not  lie  for  five  hundred  dollars." 

"Gattl"  exploded  Blumschein.  "Tell  him 
he  is  now  in  Ameriga.  Tell  him  de  gustom 
here  is  differend.  Tell  him  he  is  tamn'  lucky 
to  get  so  much  for  von  lie!" 

Leopold,  however,  shook  his  head;  and 
this  should  have  prepared  Blumschein  for 
what  happened  later. 

After  three  recitals  in  New  York,  the  last 
of  which  was  a  triumph,  the  young  Hungarian 
went  en  tour.  Thanks  to  the  New  York 
critics  and  the  expert  press  agent  furnished 
by  Blumschein,  many  came  to  hear  the  great 


Opus  43,  Number  6 

Vladimar,  with  the  secret  sorrow  and  soulful 
eyes. 

"Py  Gottl"  said  Blumschein  as  he  checked 
over  the  paid  admittance  sent  to  him  from 
St.  Louis.  "Ve'll  make  de  long-haired  Bole 
look  sig  before  ve're  done  yed." 

In  Kansas  City  Leopold  stepped  into 
melting  slush  up  to  his  ankles.  By  the  time 
he  reached  Chicago  his  eyes  and  nose  were 
matched  in  a  Marathon.  The  Windy  City, 
true  to  her  name,  urged  the  contestants  on» 
Leopold  became  more  interested  in  athletics 
than  in  the  Chopin  E  Minor  Concerto.  He 
decided  not  to  play  at  Orchestra  Hall  that 
night. 

"Come  on,  old  scout!"  urged  the  anxious 
press  agent.  "Show  some  pep!  There's 
eight  thousand  in  the  house  if  there's  a 
dime!  Let's  get  this  coin  while  the  getting's 
good.  What's  a  little  cold?" 

Leopold  peered   at  the  big  black  piano. 
It  had  a  menacing  look.     The  rippling  hum 
of  the  tuning  orchestra  seemed   a  part  of 
the  roaring  in  his  head. 
113 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"No  possibeel,"  he  said  briefly.  He  turned 
up  his  coat  collar,  turned  on  his  heel,  and 
went  back  to  the  hotel. 

Leopold's  cold  laid  steady  siege  to  him. 
The  enemy  camped  in  his  chest  and  head. 
They  rushed  troops  up  and  down  his  spine 
and  sent  icy  skirmishers  to  his  hands  and 
feet.  He  lost  three  recitals  in  Chicago,  but 
got  to  Detroit  somehow,  and  was  driven  to 
the  Detroit  Opera  House,  burning  and  shiver- 
ing by  turns. 

"They're  all  out  there,"  the  press  agent  told 
him — "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Packard,  Miss  Chalmers, 
and  all  the  little  Fords.  Now  fly  at  it!" 

Leopold  flew  at  the  terrific  Variations  on 
a  Theme  of  Paganini's,  by  Brahms.  When 
he  finished  they  "tore  the  house  down," 
as  the  press  agent  put  it;  but  Leopold,  be- 
tween sniffles,  called  himself  a  "butchair" 
and  would  play  no  more. 

"Why,  kid,  it  was  swell!"  said  the  press 
agent.  "Listen  to  'em!" 

"Ba-ad,"  said  Leopold.     "R-rottan!     No 
tawch;  no  tone;  no  nutting!" 
114 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

That  ended  his  tour.  He  went  back  to 
New  York  the  next  day.  Blumschein,  after 
frenzied  pleadings,  canceled  Cleveland, 
Buffalo  and  Boston,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Leopold  waited  in  New  York  for  two 
recitals  he  was  to  give  in  the  latter  part  of 
March.  His  cold  grew  better,  but  he  suffered 
from  homesickness.  From  his  fifth  year  on 
he  had  spent  most  of  his  waking  hours  at  a 
piano.  He  knew  little  of  his  fellow-men. 
His  shy  musician's  soul  fled  deep  within 
him  at  contact  with  these  brisk  Americans. 
At  a  reception  where  he  was  supposed  to 
roar,  the  press  agent  watched  his  more  than 
agony  from  behind  some  potted  palms  and 
pronounced  him  a  "bum  mixer!" 

Leopold  was  left  to  his  own  devices  from 
then  on. 

One  night  he  passed  the  blazing  sign  of 
a  Hungarian  restaurant.  A  longing  to  hear 
his  native  tongue  turned  him  back  and  drew 
him  within.  The  cafe's  interior  proved  more 
modest  than  its  flamboyant  sign.  From  every 
side,  however,  came  words  that  Leopold 
115 


The  Lucky  Seven 


could  understand.  He  ordered  his  dinner, 
gave  a  sigh  of  contentment,  and  beamed 
about  him. 

Seated  at  a  piano,  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  was  a  girl.  She  chanced  to  be  looking 
his  way.  As  their  eyes  met  Leopold  ex- 
perienced an  extraordinary  sensation.  For  an 
instant  it  lasted;  then  her  glance  traveled 
past  him  with  tired  indifference.  Leopold 
seemed  to  have  taken  some  swift  elixir  which 
was  sending  warm  and  tingling  waves  through 
his  veins. 

From  that  moment  he  watched  her  sur- 
reptitiously, half  fearful,  half  hoping  she 
would  look  at  him  again.  She  failed  to  do  so. 
She  played  MacDowell's  "To  a  Water  Lily" 
instead.  Leopold  shuddered. 

She  played  twice  more  before  he  left,  but 
never  looked  his  way  again,  though  he  spent 
an  hour  over  his  dinner. 

He  dined  at  the  restaurant  the  next  three 

evenings.    Nothing  happened.    On  the  fourth 

evening  the  table  near  her  was  already  taken 

by  a  red-haired  man  with  a  beard.     This 

116 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

alarmed  him.  By  cunning  questions  he  drew 
from  the  waiter  that  through  a  conference  with 
the  proprietor  he  might  reserve  any  table  he 
wished. 

Leopold  summoned  his  courage  and  the 
proprietor. 

Yes;  he  might  have  the  same  table  every 
night.  Which  table  did  he  prefer,  and  at 
what  hour? 

Leopold  looked  about  the  room  as  though 
making  a  selection.  At  last,  not  meeting  the 
proprietor's  eye,  he  decided  on  the  one  in 
the  corner  near  the  piano.  He  blushed 
slightly  when  it  was  promised  to  him  for 
seven  o'clock  each  evening. 

Would  the  proprietor  join  him  in  a  glass  of 
kummel? 

The  proprietor  would,  and  did,  and  talked 
of  Hungary  and  of  Leopold's  own  beloved 
Budapest. 

On  Friday  night  a  wonderful  thing  hap- 
pened.    As  he  took  his  seat  she  was  staring 
at   the   keyboard,    her   hands,    as   was   her 
custom,  folded  in  her  lap. 
117 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Leopold  had  not  seen  her  for  twenty-three 
hours.  He  was  assuring  himself  that  her 
profile  had  not  changed,  when  she  looked  up 
so  suddenly  that  he  had  no  time  to  drop  his 
eyes.  He  had  the  same  delicious  shock  he 
had  treasured  in  his  memory;  then — dreadful 
to  behold ! — she  frowned. 

Leopold  grew  red  with  shame.  Instantly 
her  frown  disappeared.  The  corners  of  her 
mouth  lifted  in  the  faintest  of  smiles  as  she 
barely  nodded. 

Leopold,  while  getting  back  to  his  hotel, 
was  all  but  run  over  by  a  truck.  She  had 
noticed  him!  She  had  bowed  to  him! 

A  few  nights  later  he  did  a  deed  of  con- 
summate daring.  He  waited  until  she  had 
left  the  cafe,  then  asked  the  proprietor  about 
her.  He  learned  that,  like  Tommy  Tucker,  she 
played  for  her  supper — also  for  her  breakfast ; 
that  she  gave  lessons  on  the  piano,  and  that 
she  was  a  good  girl.  Leopold  did  not  doubt  it. 

Did  the  proprietor  know  her  address? 
The  proprietor  looked  searchingly  into  Leo- 
pold's face. 

118 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

"I  wish,"  explained  Leopold,  "to  have 
instruction  on  the  piano." 

The  proprietor's  fat,  moist  fingers  closed  on 
Leopold's  long,  slender  hand. 

"You  are  sure  of  that,  my  son?" 

"On  the  honor  of  a  Hungarian,"  said 
Leopold. 

"Good!"  said  the  proprietor.  "I  will  give 
you  the  address." 


Miss  Delia  Hicks  was  tilting  her  head 
before  the  frowning  face  of  Beethoven,  whom 
she  had  just  tacked  up  on  the  studio  wall. 
I  say  studio,  following  the  precedent  of 
Miss  Hicks,  who  thus  referred  to  her  apart- 
ment. 

Speaking  without  enthusiasm,  it  was  a 
second-floor  back  room  in  need  of  plaster, 
wall  paper  and  more  light.  Its  one  window 
was  now  staring  at  the  contortions  of  a  red 
woolen  undershirt  and  drawers,  a  pair  of 
gray  wool  socks  with  white  heels  and  toes, 
119 


The  Lucky  Seven 


and  a  limp  white  shirt  of  the  boiled  variety, 
strung  on  a  wire  in  the  court  below. 

It  would  be  easy  to  enumerate  the  furniture 
which  the  room  contained;  but  how  she 
furnished  her  studio  is  Miss  Hicks's  own 
affair.  I  will  call  attention,  however,  to  the 
piano.  It  was  an  upright,  made  of  oak, 
with  a  bench  to  match.  To  keep  it  in  its 
present  place  by  means  of  a  monthly  rental 
was  a  problem. 

Miss  Hicks  had  faced  many  problems  since 
leaving  Utica,  Ohio.  Spurred  on  by  the 
enthusiasm  of  her  fellow-townsmen,  her 
journey  to  the  larger  city  was  of  an  incendiary 
character.  Her  music  was  to  set  New  York 
afire.  So  far,  Chief  Croker  and  his  band 
had  found  no  trouble  in  controlling  the 
blaze. 

Having  assured  herself  that  Mr.  Beethoven, 
despite  his  frown,  was  adding  to  the  studio's 
atmosphere,  Miss  Hicks  thought  of  luncheon. 
When  one  is  twenty-two  the  appetite  is  a 
thing  to  be  reckoned  with.  She  had  found 
this  fact  to  be  one  of  her  problems. 
120 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

She  proceeded  to  solve  it  on  this  occasion 
by  assembling  on  the  table  three  macaroons 
and  a  stick  of  milk  chocolate.  She  was  busy 
with  a  tea-kettle  when  the  boards  in  the  hall 
floor  creaked  the  announcement  of  a  visitor. 
Miss  Hicks  set  a  chipped  teacup  on  the  table 
as  there  came  a  gentle  knocking  at  the  door. 

"Come!"  she  said. 

Leopold  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Hicks. 

Leopold  said  nothing.  He  had  been  walk- 
ing round  and  round  the  block  for  two  hours. 
His  arrival  at  her  door  should  be  mentioned 
with  the  doings  of  David,  Horatius,  Charlotte 
Corday,  and  Barney  Oldfield.  It  left  him 
incapable  of  further  effort. 

Miss  Hicks  had  been  regarding  him  with 
a  frank,  almost  boyish  look  that  was  pe- 
culiarly her  own. 

"I'll  thank  you  to  close  that  door,"  she 
said  at  last. 

For  the  second  time  Leopold  turned  fiery 
red  under  her  eyes.  Since  his  agony  had 
made  him  chalklike  until  now,  the  change 
121 


The  Lucky  Seven 


was  startling.  It  saved  the  day.  A  dan- 
gerous person  could  never  blush  like  that. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  me?"  asked  Miss 
Hicks  in  a  more  kindly  tone. 

Leopold  swallowed,  and  produced  his  card 
and  a  letter.  The  letter  was  from  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  restaurant  where  she  played. 
It  recommended  the  bearer,  who  wished 
instruction  on  the  piano.  Miss  Hicks  read 
it  over  twice. 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "Come  in,  Mr.—" 
Here  she  glanced  at  the  card.  "Mr. — er — 
Come  in!" 

From  then  on,  Leopold's  artistic  endeavors 
made  a  volte-face.  For  twenty  years,  hum- 
bly, passionately,  he  had  wooed  his  piano. 
Little  by  little  it  had  yielded  to  him.  At 
last  its  elusive,  quivering,  marvelous  soul 
had  become  his  to  do  with  as  he  liked.  Now 
for  an  hour  each  Monday,  Wednesday  and 
Saturday  he  proved  a  fickle  lover.  He 
strove  to  forget. 

During  lessons  his  fingers  lost  their  swift 
and  panther-like  dexterity.  They  became 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

clumsy  wooden  mallets,  while  Leopold's  fore- 
head grew  damp  with  sweat.  It  was  a 
prodigious  feat,  unique  in  the  history  of 
musical  accomplishment  and  fraught  with 
danger.  He  learned  this  at  his  second  lesson. 

He  was  attempting  a  scale.  He  had 
worked  up  through  the  treble  and  was  com- 
ing back  laboriously  to  the  middle  register 
when  Miss  Hicks,  in  calling  attention  to  the 
third  finger  of  the  left  hand,  allowed  her 
hair  to  brush  his  temple. 

The  result  was  disastrous.  Leopold's  fingers 
ran  wild.  The  scale  ripped  through  the 
middle  register  like  a  Gatling  gun  and  finished 
with  magnificent  thunder  in  the  base. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Miss  Hicks,  and  stabbed 
the  quaking  Leopold  with  round  and  question- 
ing eyes. 

"What  was  that?    What  did  you  do  then?" 

"Sleep!"  apologized  Leopold;  and  this  was 
entirely  true. 

"Slip!"  repeated  Miss  Hicks.  "How  slip? 
Do  it  again !" 

Then  Leopold  lapsed  from  truthtelling. 
123 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"No  possibeel,"  he  informed  her,  shaking 
his  head.  "Hands  sleep." 

Miss  Hicks  regarded  him  with  hard  sus- 
picion. 

"Well,  it's  mighty  funny!"  she  said  at  last. 
"My  hands  never  slipped  like  that  in  all  my 
life.  Say,  where  do  you  come  from  anyway? 
Why  are  you  taking  music  lessons?" 

There  followed  a  bad  ten  minutes  for 
Leopold.  He  wore  through  it  somehow,  and 
the  lesson  was  resumed.  From  then  on  he 
applied  a  rigid  concentration  to  his  task. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks,  despite  six  lessons, 
his  music  teacher  seemed  as  remote  and  inac- 
cessible to  Leopold  as  the  princess  in  the 
fairy  tale,  who  lived  on  a  mountain  made  of 
glass. 

What  few  women  he  had  known  were 
Hungarians.  Their  glances  were  either  mys- 
terious or  inviting.  Their  very  atmosphere 
was  amorous.  A  man  in  their  eyes  was  a 
possible  lover  or — nothing.  Miss  Hicks,  slim, 
blond,  businesslike,  was  not  at  all  like  that. 

He  became  dumb  before  her,  rarely  met 
124 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

her  eye,  and  left  her  with  a  formal  bow,  to 
dream  the  things  he  might  have  said  had  he 
the  courage  and  the  vocabulary. 

In  Utica,  Ohio,  all  foreigners  were  queer. 
Miss  Hicks  was  loyal  to  her  own.  Leopold's 
bow,  though  it  came  to  him  from  ancestors 
who  had  spent  five  centuries  at  court  to 
learn  it,  was  funny!  So  was  Leopold,  when 
she  thought  of  him  at  all.  His  few  attempts 
at  English  amused  her.  His  last  name  was 
beyond  her.  It  looked  like  Scarecrow,  and 
that  was  what  she  called  him.  She  never 
saw  him  except  at  lessons.  He  had  given  up 
his  table  at  the  restaurant.  He  felt  that 
staring  at  her  in  a  public  place  lacked  delicacy. 

Toward  the  end  of  March,  Miss  Hicks 
received  a  note.  It  contained  a  windfall. 
Flora  Madden,  once  of  Utica,  now  of  Brooklyn, 
inclosed  a  ticket  to  Carnegie  Hall. 

"I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  anything,"  wrote 
Mrs.  Madden;  "but  I've  got  to  have  some  busi- 
ness friends  of  papa's  to  dinner.  I  sold  one  to  a 
speculator;  but  you  take  the  other,  dear!  It's 
to  hear  Vladimar — they  say  he's  wonderful !" 
125 


The^Lucky  Seven 


Miss  Hicks  entered  New  York's  musical 
Mecca  the  following  night.  "  She  was  shown  by 
an  usher  to  one  of  the  most  expensive  seats — 
Mr.  Madden  sold  _  a  great  many  vacuum 
cleaners. 

All  about  her  were  ladies  with  jewels  about 
their  necks  and  nothing  at  all  on  their  backs. 
They  gave  off  faint  perfumes  and  bent  to 
their  escorts  with  charming,  low-voiced  mur- 
murs. Miss  Hicks,  too  happy  to  be  conscious 
of  her  shortcomings  in  the  matter  of  toilet, 
drank  it  all  in  rapturously. 

At  last  her  attention  was  focused,  with  a 
thrill,  on  the  stage.  It  centered  on  a  giant 
piano,  black  as  night,  that  blinked  sleep- 
ily in  the  glare  of  the  footlights.  It  seemed 
like  some  great  beast,  sullen,  ominous,  that 
crouched  there — waiting. 

Gloved  hands  pattered  like  rain.  The  beast's 
master  had  appeared.  He  was  slender,  pale, 
with  dark,  unfathomable  eyes.  He  drew  his 
heels  together  and  made  a  funny  foreign  bow. 

"Why!"  shrieked  Miss  Hicks.  "It's  Scare- 
crow!" 

126 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

Fortunately  the  applause  drowned  her 
voice.  Only  those  near  her  turned  to  frown. 
She  never  saw  them.  Her  brain  reeled  as  it 
assured  her  that  it  really  was  Scarecrow. 

The  evening  was  a  dream.  Even  the 
music,  flooding  the  house  like  celestial  wine, 
seemed  a  vague  accompaniment  to  her 
thoughts.  They  were  mostly  questions. 

Why  had  he  come  to  her  for  lessons? 
Why  had  he  stumbled  over  simple  little 
pieces?  Why?  Why?  Why? 

She  would  not  let  him  in  when  he  came 
next  day!  ...  Of  course  she  would,  if  only 
to  find  out.  .  .  .  Maybe  he  was  crazy — he 
was  a  genius  and  a  foreigner!  Maybe  it  was 
not  safe  to  let  him  in!  He  had  always  been 
respectful,  though — almost  shy.  She  could 
call  to  that  plumber  in  the  store  below  if 
he  got  wild.  .  .  .  And  she  simply  must  find 
out! 

Leopold  came  serenely  to  his  lesson.  No; 
hardly  that — he  was  never  serene  as  he  ap- 
proached the  flight  of  stairs  that  led  to  his 
hour  with  her;  but  he  was,  at  least,  unsus- 
127 


The  Lucky  Seven 


pecting.  He  did  not  associate  her  with  the 
jeweled  and  rustling  audience  of  the  night 
before.  He  was  not  prepared  to  have  her  give 
him  a  wild  look  and  get  hastily  behind  the 
table. 

He  moved  across  the  room  and  stood  un- 
certainly by  the  piano. 

"Lezzon?"  he  suggested  timidly. 

Miss  Hicks  wet  her  lips  with  the  tip  of 
her  tongue.  She  remained  behind  the  table. 

"Where  were  you  last  night?"  she  inquired. 

The  guilty  Leopold  grew  scarlet. 

That  restored  her  courage.  He  was  the 
old  Scarecrow  when  he  blushed — not  the 
wonderful  though  mad  being  who  turned  a 
piano  into  a  choir  of  heavenly  voices.  She 
came  part  way  from  behind  the  table. 

"Why  have  you  been  coming  here?"  she 
demanded. 

Leopold  gazed  at  her  helplessly. 

"Muzeek  lezzons,"  he  offered  weakly. 

Miss   Hicks  laughed  him  to   scorn.     She 
withdrew  altogether  from  the  protection  of 
the  table  and  confronted  him. 
128 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

"Music  lessons — your  grandmother!"  she 
said.  "I  was  at  Carnegie  Hall  last  night. 
Now,  why  have  you  been  coming  here?" 

Leopold  met  her  level  glance  and  quailed 
to  his  marrow  before  it.  He  could  deceive 
her  no  longer!  Where  was  he  to  find  words 
to  tell  her?  It  would  have  been  a  terrifying 
task  in  warm  Hungarian.  In  his  limping, 
contemptible  English  it  was  sacrilege  to 
think  of  it.  He  looked  in  dumb  hopelessness 
about  the  poor,  dear  and  now  familiar  room. 
He  was  about  to  be  swept  out  of  it  forever. 
His  eyes  came  at  last  to  the  piano.  They 
widened  slowly. 

"Sect  down!"  he  said  with  an  imploring 
gesture. 

She  did  so,  wondering.  Leopold  sank  to 
the  piano  bench  and  gathered  a  great  sheaf 
of  golden  notes  in  his  hands. 

Outside,  the  plumber's  washing  danced 
in  the  cold  March  wind.  Over  the  court 
wall  Miss  Hicks  could  see  a  bare  and  lonely 
tree.  Its  forlorn  background  was  a  wind- 
swept tenement  house. 

129 


The  Lucky  Seven 


She  had  one  desolate  glimpse  of  all  this — 
then  it  was  gone.  .  .  .  Rich  meadows,  velvet 
green,  stretched  on  and  on  before  her.  Her 
nostrils  were  filled  with  the  breath  of  new- 
born violets.  Brooks  laughed.  Birds  sang. 
Butterflies  flashed  in  the  sunlight.  A  million 
lovers  met  and  clung  and  kissed — for  Leopold 
had  called  on  the  magic  of  the  Scandinavian 
gentleman. 

Miss  Hicks  was  stirred  by  nameless  long- 
ings, sweet  beyond  words  or  thought.  They 
made  her  heart  flutter  and  surge.  They 
filled  her  throat  and  eyes. 

And  now  the  sun  went  down  and  a  yellow 
moon  hung  above  breathless  trees.  .  .  . 
Leopold  had  done  it.  Technically,  he  was 
improvising  on  the  theme  of  Opus  43,  Number 
6.  In  reality  he  took  Miss  Hicks  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  to  a  moonlit  glade.  Then  he 
whispered — whispered  to  her,  while  nightin- 
gales sang.  He  was  no  longer  funny.  .  .  . 
He  was  dear  beyond  all  earthly  things — her 
own !  Her  very  own ! 

Suddenly  black  terror  seized  her — he  was 
130 


Opus  43,   Number  6 

leaving — he  was  gone!  .  .  .  She  looked  up 
to  see  him  standing  by  the  piano,  back  in 
her  own  room. 

"Zat,  deer  von,"  he  said,  "ees  vy  I  kom!" 

Miss  Hicks  raised  one  hand  to  her  throat — 
tiny  hammers  were  beating  there.  Her  eyes 
were  no  longer  frank  and  boyish.  They 
had  become  deep  pools  of  mystery. 

"I'm — glad — you — came!"  she  breathed, 
and  flushed  into  a  pink  glory. 

Leopold  discovered  that  his  arms  could 
do  more  than  sweep  from  end  to  end  of  the 
keyboard. 


Ill 

GOLDIE  MAY  AND  THE  FAITHFUL  SERVANT 


m 

GOLDIE  MAY  AND  THE  FAITHFUL  SERVANT 

BECAUSE  of  a  promise  made  to  Mrs. 
Talbot  Kingsbury,  I  have  a  task  to  per- 
form: I  must  write  a  story  with  a  purpose. 
This  is  not  in  my  line.  I  am  to  enter  the 
lists,  pen  in  hand,  against  one  Spike  Lavinsky; 
and  all  because  Goldie  May,  aged  twenty-two 
— the  cough  of  her  profession  already  upon  her 
— persists  in  earning  money  for  Spike,  despite 
the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Something 
or  Other,  of  which  Mrs.  Kingsbury  is  presi- 
dent. 

"We  could  save  this  girl;  I  feel  sure  of  it," 
Mrs.  Talbot  Kingsbury  told  me — "if  it  weren't 
for  that  horrible — that  unspeakable  man! 
Oh,  why  haven't  we  laws  that  would  take 
him  and  kill  him  for  the  beastly  thing  he  is!" 

"And  yet — perhaps  in  the  next  flat,"  I 
suggested,  "lives  Mrs.  Pat  McGann,  who 
135 


The  Lucky  Seven 


wipes  the  soapsuds  from  her  arms  to  hand 
Pat  his  drink  money  for  the  week.  Is  Pat 
a  white  slaver?  Not  he!  he  has  encom- 
passed his  woman  with  the  law  and  the 
church." 

Mrs.  Talbot  Kingsbury  put  her  hands  over 
her  ears. 

"I  won't  hear  any  more !"  she  said.  "That's 
the  way  with  all  you  clever  men — you  twist 
things  so  and  make  black  seem  white,  and 
you  won't  do  anything  to  help!  Why,  if  I 
could  only  write  as  you  can,  I'd  write  day  and 
night  until  such  men  were  driven  out  of  the 
city — I'd  wring  the  hearts  of  the  people! 
I'd— I'd— tell  the  truth— just  the  truth. 
Won't  you  do  it?  Please — just  one  story! 
Start  with  this  one.  Go  see  this  girl,  and  then 
write.  Here's  her  address.  Will  you?  Please! 
Oh,  please!" 

And  so  I  promised  Mrs.  Kingsbury  to  write 
a  story  and  "tell  the  truth,"  as  she  put  it. 
Then  her  nephew,  Billy  Kingsbury,  burst  in. 
He  had  a  head  like  a  young  god.  He  was 
home  again,  having  finished  at  Oxford.  Be- 
136 


Goldie  May 


cause  he  could  drive  a  guttapercha  ball  further 
and  more  accurately  than  almost  any  one 
else,  he  was  already  a  celebrity. 

An  adoring  maid  brought  him  cakes;  an 
adoring  aunt  poured  him  tea;  and  I  thought 
as  I  took  my  hat  and  stick  from  the  man  'at 
the  door  and  went  out  into  the  avenue — 
Goldie  May's  address  in  my  pocket — that 
many  would  adore  that  young  man  before 
his  day  was  over. 


Her  given  name  was  seasonable.  Old 
Doctor  Hemingway  had  creaked  down  the 
almost  perpendicular  stairs,  had  blown  his 
nose  on  his  big  red  handkerchief  and  said: 

"A  gal,  Ezra!" 

Her  grandfather  closed  "The  Light  of  Asia" 
and  put  it  carefully  on  its  accustomed  corner 
of  the  marble-topped  table.  He  had  not 
been  reading  while  he  waited.  He  had  been 
watching  the  crab-apple  blossoms  nod  to 
him  through  the  open  window. 

"We'll  call  her  May,"  he  said  at  last,  his 
137 


The  Lucky  Seven 


eyes  still  on  the  crab-apple  blossoms.  "Her 
gran'mother'll  wanta  land  somethin5  hifalutin 
on  her.  It'll  be  May  though— you  hear  me, 
Doc?— It'll  be  May!" 

And  May  it  was. 

But  the  soda-water  clerks,  across  the  aisle, 
called  her  Goldie  before  she  had  been  behind 
the  candy  counter  three  days,  and  the  name 
was  taken  up  by  all  the  employees  of  the 
Archer  Drug  Store.  Even  Mr.  Wheatlin,  the 
crisp  little,  tense  little  manager,  called  her 
Miss  Goldie  when  he  wanted  to  know  why  the 
Saturday  chocolate  sale  was  thirty  pounds 
below  the  week  before — "And  a  perfect  day 
for  chocolates,  young  lady — cold  and  bright 
and  fair!"  As  he  said  "bright  and  fair,"  his 
eyes,  despite  him,  would  lift  to  the  spun 
gold,  coil  on  coil,  that  crownedjthe  girl  be- 
fore him. 

"There  was  a  game  at  New  Haven  to-day," 
she  would  explain,  looking  him  evenly  be- 
tween the  eyes* 

"Ah — so  there  was!  So  there  was!"  the 
little  manager  would  say  relievedly.  He 
138 


Goldie  May 


had  found  his  explanation  for  the  main  office, 
which  was  forever  wanting  to  know  "Why?" 
"Thank  you,  Miss  Goldie— er— that's  all." 

The  drug  store  ruled  by  the  little  manager 
was  one  of  a  dozen  or  more  stores  owned  by 
the  Archer  Drug  Company.  This  particular 
store  had  for  its  territory  a  cleanly  suburb, 
divided  from  the  city  proper  by  a  twinkling 
river. 

In  this  suburb  there  was  a  big  university. 
In  this  university  youths — not  quite  boys, 
not  quite  men — learned  many  things.  They 
learned — but  what  they  learned  has  nothing 
to  do  with  this  story,  except  that  some  of 
them — a  good  many  of  them,  in  fact — 
learned  to  have  a  sudden  liking  for  chocolates. 

Stuff  Weatherbee,  who  really  liked  choco- 
lates, "saw  her  first."  She  had  been  sent  to 
the  University  Branch  Store  by  the  general 
manager  of  the  Archer  Drug  Company,  who 
had  imagination  and  applied  it  to  the  business. 

"But  no  trifling,  young  lady!"  he  had  told 
her.  "Only  ladies  are  employed  by  the 
Archer  Drug  Company.  You  understand  me?" 
139 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Homesick  and  very  much  afraid,  she  nodded 
dumbly,  and  so  was  behind  the  candy  counter 
when  Stuff,  after  a  gulp,  asked  for  a  pound  of 
"your  best  chocolates." 

That  night  he  claimed  her  for  his  own  by 
right  of  discovery,  making  an  impassioned 
speech  to  a  roomful  of  his  kind,  somewhat 
as  follows: 

"Friends,  Romans,  countrymen — lend  me 
your  attention  for  a  moment!  I  come  to  tell 
you  that  I  have  a  mortgage  on  this  flapper — 
get  me?  But,  loving  schoolmates — loving 
schoolmates — I  ask  you  to  go  and  take  a  look. 
Believe  me,  she  is  some  chicken!" 

From  then  on,  chocolates  became  the  rage. 
At  first  she  was  known  as  The  Candy  Kid, 
but  some  of  them  learned  her  given  name, 
and  many  of  them  heard  from  other  clerks 
her  nickname — Goldie.  At  last  they  com- 
bined their  knowledge  and  her  names,  and 
called  her  Goldie  May. 

Then  began  a  battle.  They  laid  siege  to 
her,  one  thousand  strong.  Big  odds,  gentle- 
men— big  odds !  One  maid  against  a  thousand 
140 


Goldie  May 


and  a  traitor  heart  that  sent  a  world-old 
longing  through  her  veins. 

Why  she  resisted  is  a  secret  that  only 
women  know.  She  was  no  more  capable  of 
moralizing  than  a  kitten.  That  her  body 
was  a  trust  to  be  kept  inviolate  for  humanity's 
sake  she  never  even  dreamed.  To  her  the 
future  was  not.  To-morrow  never  dawned. 
She  saw  happiness  little  beyond  the  moment; 
and  she  wanted,  above  all  else,  to  be  happy. 

Yet,  with  every  fiber  of  her  body  craving 
the  excitement  that  would  be  hers  through 
companionship  with  some  warm-eyed  buoyant 
youth,  she  stood  safe  behind  her  candy 
counter  and  met  them  all  with  the  same 
friendly,  impersonal  smile.  This  smile  cur- 
tained her  from  them  far  better  than  a  frown. 
Where  she  found  it  is  another  secret  that 
only  women  know. 

They  accomplished  one  thing,  however — 
these  much-tubbed  young  men.  They  taught 
her  to  know  and  require  more  than  those  of 
her  own  class  could  give  her.  After  one  or 
two  trials  at  picture  shows  and  dance  halls 
141 


The  Lucky  Seven 


with  Mr.  Jerry  Mulhauser,  who  had  charge 
of  the  "patent'*  counter,  she  accepted  no 
more  of  his  invitations.  Jerry's  intentions 
were  of  the  .best,  but  he  ate  garlic,  reached 
his  hair,  and  called  her  Kiddo. 

Once  she  ventured — her  instinct  failing  her 
— with  a  smooth  and  experienced  person  who 
sold  pipes.  Being  told  by  the  girl  at  the 
cashier's  desk  that  the  little  manager  was 
"out  to  lunchun,"  the  pipe  salesman  put 
down  his  sample  case  and  drifted,  with  just 
the  right  amount  of  aimlessness,  to  the 
candy  counter.  He  seemed  to  see  Goldie 
May  for  the  first  time  as  he  looked  up  from  a 
bored  inspection  of  a  wicker-gilt  candy  basket. 
He  met  a  friendly,  impersonal  smile  and 
returned  it  with  its  mate. 

"Tired?"  he  asked. 

"Not  very." 

"I  am,"  he  confided  to  her.  "Business  is 
rotten.  Sort  of  takes  the  ginger  out  of  me. 
I  can  go  all  day  and  never  feel  it  if  things  are 
breaking  right.  You  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Sure!"  she  answered.  "I  hate  to  stand 
142 


Goldie  May 


around  worse  than  anything  else.  I  like  to 
be  so  busy  I  can't  think." 

They  chatted  on. 

"Haven't  been  home  for  two  months,"  he 
said.  "Haven't  met  anyone  I  know  this 
trip.  Last  night  I  got  to  thinking  of  the 
bunch  playing  pool  at  the  Hollenden  back 
home — it  was  fierce!  I  got  kinda  homesick, 
I  guess.  ...  I  suppose  you  think  travelin's 
a  cinch.  Well,  it  ain't — take  it  from  me! 
It's  lonesome  business.  You  don't  know  when 
you're  well  off.  When  you  get  through  you 
got  a  home  to  go  to.  A  hotel  lobby  for  mine! 
Gee,  how  I  hate  'em!" 

"I  don't  live  here,"  said  she.  "I  live  up  in 
Vermont.  If  you  could  see  where  I  stay,  I 
guess  you  wouldn't  call  it  much  of  a  home." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  show  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"Say,  that's  tough!"  he  said.  "It's  bad 
enough  for  a  man,  but  it's  fierce  for  a  girl. 
But  then,  you've  got  friends  to  be  with — 
evenings." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  deny  this,  but 
143 


The  Lucky  Seven 


changed  her  mind  in  a  flash  and  began  to 
fill  a  glass  jar  with  lime  drops. 

"What  were  you  going  to  say?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know— when?" 

"A  minute  ago  when  you  stopped." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I've  forgotten,"  said 
Goldie  May,  still  busy  with  the  lime  drops. 

He  watched  her  in  silence  for  a  moment; 
then  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I  guess  I  won't  wait  for  the  boss,"  he 
said.  "He  must  be  Fletcherizing.  Well,  be 
good!  ...  So  long!" 

She  neglected  the  lime  drops  to  watch  him 
as  he  walked  toward  his  sample  case.  He 
picked  it  up,  set  it  down  again,  and  came  back 
briskly  to  the  counter. 

"Say,"  he  began,  "I've  just  thought  about 
this  evening.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  stand 
for  that  hotel  lobby.  Won't  you  pass  up 
whatever  you've  planned  to  do  and  help  a 
lonesome  guy?  We  can  have  a  bite  to  eat 
and  then  a  show,  or  whatever  you  say.  How 
about  it?" 

He  did  not  seem  too  eager.  His  tone  was 
144 


Goldie  May 


matter-of-fact,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  a 
frank,  whimsical,  almost  boyish  smile.  Goldie 
May  searched  his  face  for  a  moment  with  her 
eyes.  He  met  this  look  of  inquiry  easily,  still 
smiling. 

"I  never  go  out  with  strangers,"  she  said 
at  last. 

He  laughed  aloud  at  this. 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?"  he  said. 
"Why,  I  knew  that  the  minute  I  looked  at 
you.  That's  the  reason  I  asked  you  to  go. 
You  may  not  believe  it,  but  I  don't  ask 
many  girls  to  go  out  with  me.  They're  too 
easy.  But  you're  different.  I'd  be  tickled 
to  death  if  you'd  take  dinner  with  me.  Will 
you?" 

"How  do  I  know  all  that?"  she  asked. 
"You  probably  say  the  same  thing  to  every- 
body you  meet.  I  don't — " 

"Wait  a  minute!"  he  interrupted.  "I  can 
prove  that  it  isn't  every  girl  I  meet.  Now 
how  long  do  you  think  it  would  take  me  to 
get  a  girl  for  dinner  in  this  town?  Why, 
look  right  over  there  at  that  black-haired 
145 


The  Lucky  Seven 


cashier;  I'll  bet  money  she'd  go  in  a  minute — 
now  wouldn't  she?" 

"That's  her  business,"  said  Goldie  May; 
but  obviously  he  had  scored. 

He  took  instant  advantage  of  it.  The 
smile  left  his  lips. 

"I  don't  want  to  argue  about  it  any  more," 
he  said.  "If  you'll  give  me  your  address  I'll 
call  for  you  at  any  hour  you  say;  and  I'll 
try  to  make  you  have  an  agreeable  evening. 
I'll  appreciate  your  kindness  in  coming  very 
much.  .  .  .  You  see,"  he  added,  his  smile 
returning,  "a  man  likes  to  make  the  other 
fellows  in  a  cafe  feel  jealous  of  the  girl  at  his 
table;  and  you're  the  girl  to  do  it — believe 
me!" 

Goldie  May  hesitated,  and  then  wrote  her 
name  and  address  hastily  on  a  piece  of 
wrapping  paper. 

"I'll  be  ready  at  seven,"  she  said  as  she 
pushed  the  paper  across  the  counter.  "But 
maybe  I'll  feel  sorry  for  this!" 

"Believe   me,   you   won't,"   he   told   her. 
"Thank  you  very  much!" 
146 


Goldie  May 


That  evening,  her  hands  being  prisoned, 
she  was  forced  to  kick  out  the  glass  of  the 
taxicab  just  behind  the  stolid  driver.  An 
instant  later  she  almost  fell  into  his  arms 
as  he  opened  the  door.  He  had  a  vision  of  a 
white  face  with  eyes  like  blue  diamonds — 
then  it  was  gone. 

"Where  to — now?"  asked  the  taxicab  driver. 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  the  taxi  he  heard  a 
gloomy  voice  say:  "Parker  House."  And 
he  grinned  as  he  closed  the  door. 

A  narrow  stairway,  filled  with  a  smothering 
darkness  and  the  smell  of  ancient  matting, 
led  up  to  Mrs.  Gimball's  third  floor  back. 
Goldie  May  had  come  to  dread  this  black 
climb;  yet  she  felt  her  way  up  to  her  room 
that  night  without  the  aid  of  a  match — the 
unknown  terrors  about  her  being,  for  once, 
forgotten.  The  creaking  whispers  of  the  old 
stairs  seemed  to  her  like  friendly  little  voices, 
assuring  her  again  and  again  that  she  was 
"Safe!  Safe!  Safe!" 

She  even  undressed  in  the  dark.  She  had 
taken  the  last  match  from  the  matchbox 
147 


The  Lucky  Seven 


when  she  went  down  to  meet  her  escort 
for  the  evening. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  him  for  a  match!"  she  said 
to  herself;  then  giggled  hysterically — then 
just  giggled.  The  last  thing  she  told  herself 
before  she  went  to  sleep  was:  "Never  again, 
you  little  fool!  A  peaceful  life  for  yours!" 

She  never  forgot  that  evening,  and  the 
thought  of  it  served  as  a  mental  rampart 
against  which  the  besiegers  from  the  big 
university  hurled  themselves,  a  thousand 
strong,  in  vain. 

She  had  promised  herself  a  peaceful  life — 
and  peaceful  perhaps  it  was;  but,  also,  it  was 
lonely — and  the  terrible  loneliness  of  the  city 
strikes  to  the  soul  of  a  young  thing  born 
among  emerald  hills. 

She  met  this  loneliness  with  pretense.  She 
revived  a  romance  of  her  childhood  and 
pretended  that  she  was  waiting  for  The 
Faithful  Servant.  The  Faithful  Servant  had 
been  her  friend  for  years  and  years.  His 
picture  was  in  a  book  called  The  Wonder 
Clock.  In  this  picture  he  knelt,  holding  out 
148 


Goldie  May 


his  arm  so  that  the  King  might  cut  off  his 
hand  to  get  the  charmed  armlet  he  wore. 
He  had  on  a  beautiful  helmet  with  wings. 
He  was  looking  down  at  the  armlet.  And 
his  face  made  Goldie  May,  even  when  a  very 
small  girl,  long  to  be  the  princess  whom  he 
marries  in  the  story. 

The  Wonder  Clock  had  been  an  unexpected 
windfall.  An  artist  had  come,  one  summer, 
to  paint  the  greeny-purple  distances  of  Ver- 
mont. He  had  stayed,  Goldie  May  remem- 
bered, at  the  house  with  the  iron  gatepost, 
down  the  road  beyond  the  post  office,  where 
the  old  lady  with  the  hooked  nose  used  to 
live.  His  little  girl  and  Goldie  May  had 
played  together.  The  little  girl's  father  was 
a  funny  man.  You  never  could  understand 
anything  he  said.  Sometimes,  when  it  rained 
he  would  read  aloud  to  Goldie  May  and  his 
daughter.  Of  all  the  books  he  read,  Goldie 
May  liked  The  Wonder  Clock  best;  and  she 
liked  The  Faithful  Servant  more  than  all 
the  other  people  in  the  book. 

The  little  girl's  father  knew  this;  and  when 
149 


The  Lucky  Seven 


they  went  away  he  made  his  little  girl  give 
Goldie  May  The  Wonder  Clock,  though 
Marion — that  was  the  little  girl's  name — 
didn't  want  to  do  it,  and  cried. 

Marion's  father  stood  looking  down  at 
doldie  May  with  The  Wonder  Clock  safe 
in  her  arms. 

"Tadpole,"  he  said — he  called  her  Tadpole 
because  she  wiggled  when  he  read  The 
Wonder  Clock — "some  day  you'll  have  a 
Faithful  Servant  of  your  own — for  a  time,  at 
any  rate — for  a  time.  Treat  him  kindly  from 
the  very  first,  and  pray  God  that  he  treats 
you  kindly — at  the  last." 

Of  course  Goldie  May  did  not  understand 
this,  but  she  was  awfully  glad  to  get  The 
Wonder  Clock;  and,  until  she  learned  to  read 
about  him,  she  looked  at  the  picture  of  The 
Faithful  Servant  almost  every  day.  Later 
she  fancied  that  the  somebody  who  would 
some  day  come  for  her  would  look  like  and 
be  like  The  Faithful  Servant. 

This  childish  fancy  had  followed  her  through 
girlhood.  Even  on  the  train,  as  she  wondered 
150 


Goldie  May 


what  the  new  life  would  be  like,  she  told 
herself  that  perhaps  The  Faithful  Servant 
was  somewhere  in  the  city,  waiting.  But  he 
was  not  at  the  station  or  among  the  millions 
of  people  on  the  streets,  and  Goldie  May  had 
gradually  forgotten  about  him  until  the  lone- 
liness, which  reminded  her  of  a  lonely  child- 
hood, brought  him  back  to  her. 

She  had  only  a  memory  of  how  he  looked, 
for  during  schooldays  the  puppy  had  chewed 
and  partially  destroyed  The  Wonder  Clock 
and,  with  it,  the  splendid  pen-and-ink  draw- 
ing of  The  Faithful  Servant.  Although  she 
could  remember  every  detail  of  the  picture, 
she  wanted  it  again.  She  wanted  to  sit 
cross-legged  on  the  floor  and  pore  over  it, 
her  hair  hanging  about  her  face,  and  dream 
dreams. 

She  never  thought  of  trying  to  buy  another 
copy  of  the  book.  Always  it  had  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had  the  only  Wonder  Clock  in 
the  world.  He  was  her  Faithful  Servant! 
No  one  else  could  possibly  have  him.  So  now, 
when  night  came  and  she  was  alone  in  her 
151 


The  Lucky  Seven 


room,  she  played  the  game  of  The  Faithful 
Servant,  without  his  picture. 

And  then  one  day  a  miracle  happened — 
he  came  to  her!  He  came  out  of  a  candy 
barrel  she  was  helping  the  stock-room  boy 
unpack.  Candy  boxes  were  packed  in  the 
barrel  with  excelsior  and  newspaper.  A  piece 
of  glazed  paper,  part  of  a  Sunday  supplement, 
had  stuck  to  a  candy  box. 

Goldie  May  lifted  out  the  box  to  tear  this 
off.  There  was  a  picture  on  the  piece  of 
paper  and  she  glanced  at  it.  Then  she  looked 
again.  ...  It  was  a  picture  of  somebody  she 
knew — somebody  she  knew  quite  well.  At 
first  she  could  not  think  who  it  was.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly it  came  to  her — it  was  The  Faithful 
Servant!  He  had  a  cane  or  a  stick  in  his 
hand,  and  he  was  looking  down  at  a  little 
white  ball  lying  on  the  ground. 

Of  course  this  was  a  photograph,  not  a 
pen-and-ink;  but  the  face  and  the  way  he 
held  his  head  were  unmistakable.  Just  below 
the  picture  was  Willia —  -  Then  the  paper 
was  torn.  Below  the  torn  place  was  some- 
152 


Goldie  May 


thing  about  "young  golf  wonder"  and  "runner- 
up  in  the  Western  Championship."  Goldie 
May  did  not  know  what  runner-up  meant; 
but  she  separated  the  picture  from  the  candy 
box  very  carefully  and  put  the  scrap  of  paper 
in  a  safe  place. 

"Say!"  said  the  stockroom  boy,  who  had 
watched  her  with  a  jealous  eye.  "Whatcha 
puttin'  that  guy's  pitcher  inside  your  shirt 
for?" 

But  Goldie  May  only  laughed.  She  knew, 
at  last,  that  the  game  of  The  Faithful  Servant 
was  not  altogether  pretense.  She  knew  that 
somewhere  he  really  lived  and  breathed,  and 
that  he  looked  exactly  as  he  should. 


ii 

Upperclassmen  spoke  of  him  as  "The  Good- 
looking  Freshman";  and  that  they  noticed 
him  at  all  marked  him  as  above  the  dead 
level  of  his  class.  The  big  university  in  the 
cleanly  suburb,  separated  from  the  city  proper 
by  a  twinkling  river,  attracts  youths  to  it 
153 


The  Liucky  Seven 


from  the  ends  of  the  earth.  The  size  of  its 
Freshman  Class  year  after  year  is  in  keeping 
with  its  tremendous  prestige  and  dignity. 
It  follows  that  a  student  who  stands  out  from 
the  general  horde  must  have  something  the 
plodding  mass  of  his  brethren  lacks.  He  must 
be  notable  in  personality  or  possessions  or 
athletic  prowess. 

Of  these  three  things  the  last  is  always  first, 
so  far  as  the  student  body  is  concerned.  The 
big  university  could  nourish  a  coming  major 
poet,  and  those  who  sway  its  under-graduate 
life  would  scratch  their  heads  if  asked  his 
name  on  the  day  he  graduated;  but  some 
young  bull,  with  just  wit  enough  to  rip  and 
drive  and  butt  his  way  from  one  chalk  line 
to  the  next,  will  turn  them  by  thousands  into 
idolaters — nothing  less. 

Therefore,  it  was  not  his  personality — 
though  that  was  attractive  enough — nor  be- 
cause he  had  a  great  deal  more  money  than 
was  good  for  him,  that  made  the  upperclass- 
men  single  out  the  good-looking  freshman. 
It  was  because,  so  long  as  he  remained  there, 
154 


Goldie  May 


a  certain  athletic  championship  would  also 
remain  with  the  big  university.  The  heads 
of  the  Athletic  Association  smiled  when  in- 
ter-collegiate golf  was  mentioned,  and  the 
good-looking  freshman  profited  accordingly. 
Though  his  was  a  minor  branch  of  athletics, 
his  mastery  of  it  placed  him  among  the 
chosen  few.  Great  lords  of  the  river  or  the 
diamond  or  the  gridiron  gave  him  the  nod 
of  brotherhood  in  passing. 

Though  the  cream  of  college  life  was 
offered  to  the  good-looking  freshman,  he 
skimmed  it  off,  as  a  matter  of  course.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  be 
offered  anything  else.  As  far  back  as  he  could 
remember,  everything  he  wanted  had  been 
his.  It  had  become  a  habit  with  him  to  have 
his  wants  supplied.  People  served  him  instinct- 
ively. Head  waiters  gave  him  a  glance  and 
led  the  way  to  the  choicest  table.  Ticket 
sellers  found  seats  for  him  that  had  been  put 
aside  for  a  possible  friend.  Hotel  clerks 
assigned  him  to  the  best  they  had,  and  if 
asked  the  reason  could  not  have  told  why. 
155 


The  Lucky  Seven 


It  was  because  he  had  an  air — an  indescribable 
air;  also,  he  had  a  head  like  a  young  god. 

It  was  already  characteristic  of  them  that, 
when  the  telephone  bell  in  their  study  rang 
one  morning,  the  good-looking  freshman  went 
on  reading  while  his  roommate  strolled  to  the 
telephone. 

"It's  Mother  Hubbard,"  announced  the 
roommate,  his  hand  over  the  transmitter. 
"She  wants  to  know  whether  you'll  go  out 
to  the  Wimbleton  Club  for  luncheon  and 
play  a  round  with  a  friend  of  hers." 

That  year  the  manager  of  the  golf  team  at 
the  big  university  was  named  Hubbard.  At 
first  he  had  been  known  simply  as  The 
Squash.  Later,  Mother  had  been  prefixed  to 
his  right  name  and  his  gender  changed 
accordingly. 

"Tell  her,  'Sure!'  "  said  the  good-looking 
freshman.  "Tell  her  I'll  drop  over  in  the 
machine  for  her  at  twelve-thirty.  .  .  .  Mother 
has  a  little  scheme,"  he  told  his  roommate 
presently.  "She's  going  to  find  out  whether 
the  goods  are  just  as  advertised.  Do  you 
156 


Goldie  May 


know  who  her  friend  is?  Well,  I  do.  It's 
that  Englishman.  He's  in  town.  I  saw  it  in 
the  papers  yesterday.  I  play  the  English- 
man this  afternoon — you  can  bet  on  that! 
This  suspense  is  killing  Mother.  She's  going 
to  find  out  if  I'm  as  good  as  she's  heard." 

"Well,  are  you?"  asked  his  roommate. 

"If  anything — more  so,"  said  the  good- 
looking  freshman  with  a  grin.  Then  he 
slung  a  bag  of  clubs  over  his  shoulder  and 
went  out,  whistling. 

It  proved  to  be  "that  Englishman"  sure 
enough,  and  the  good-looking  freshman  was 
beaten,  despite  a  brilliant  seventy-four  over 
a  strange  course;  but  Mother  Hubbard  seemed 
contented  as  they  rolled  homeward. 

"Good  Gad,  freshman!"  he  said:  "Where 
did  you  learn  to  putt?" 

"Steady  nerves!"  said  the  good-looking 
freshman,  swinging  the  gray  roadster  past 
the  wavering  bicycle  of  a  messenger  boy. 
"It's  because  I  lead  such  a  pure  life." 

"Speaking  of  your  pure  young  life,  fresh- 
man," said  Mother  Hubbard  suddenly,  "do 
157 


The  Lucky  Seven 


you  know  a  classy  flapper  when  you  see 
one?" 

"Why,  I  think  so,"  said  the  good-looking 
freshman  modestly. 

"Well,  stop  at  that  drug  store  on  the 
corner  and  I'll  give  your  eyes  a  treat." 

The  man  behind  the  steering  wheel  had 
been  given  his  directions  a  shade  too  late. 
The  good-looking  freshman  threw  out  the 
clutch  and  put  on  the  brakes  with  one  motion. 
The  rear  wheels  locked,  and  the  car  skidded 
on  the  newly  sprinkled  asphalt  and  slid  into 
the  curb,  just  in  front  of  the  Archer  Drug  Store. 

For  an  instant  the  car  seemed  to  hesitate, 
as  though  wondering  what  to  do  next;  then 
it  went  over  on  its  side  with  a  crash  and  the 
jingle  of  breaking  glass. 

Mother  Hubbard,  his  hands  in  his  overcoat 
pockets,  rolled  across  the  sidewalk  until  he 
brought  up  against  the  iron  network  that 
guarded  the  narrow  windows  of  the  drug- 
store basement.  For  a  time  he  lay  staring 
into  the  basement  through  a  hole  in  the 
clouded  glass.  At  last  he  rolled  back  once, 
158 


G oldie  May 


took  his  hands  from  his  pockets  and  sat  up, 
swearing  softly. 

As  the  car  tottered,  the  good-looking  fresh- 
man shut  off  the  motor.  Then  the  pavement 
came  up  and  met  him.  It  proved  to  be  a 
whirling  blackness,  unexpectedly  soft,  and 
shot  with  streaks  of  fire.  The  streaks  of  fire 
went  out  and  there  was  a  humming,  like 
bees.  Soon  the  humming  stopped  and  it  was 
all  pleasant  and  quiet,  and  very  dark. 

Voices  began.  One  said:  "Right  in  the 
back  room  here — don't  let  that  crowd  in! 
Put  him  on  this  counter  now.  .  .  .  Cambridge 
seven-double-three,  for  Doctor  Brookes,  Mr. 
Hubbard!"  Another  said: 

"Where's  something  to  put  under  his  head? 
That's  right,  Miss  Goldie — sit  right  up  on  the 
counter!  Jerry,  bring  a  basin  of  water!  Alf, 
get  some  scissors  from  the  front  case — get  a 
roll  of  antiseptic  gauze!  Look  out  for  your 
dress,  Miss  Goldie! — here's  a  handkerchief." 

The  humming  began  again  and  drowned  the 
voices.  Then  the  quiet  darkness  came,  deeper 
than  ever. 

159 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Years  later  the  darkness  began  to  turn 
red.  Something  hard  pressed  against  his 
back — the  whole  length  of  his  body.  No — 
something  warm  and  soft  was  against  the 
back  of  his  neck  and  head.  He  turned  his 
head  a  little  and  found  his  cheek  against  the 
same  warm  softness.  He  wondered  what 
this  was  and  put  up  his  hand  to  find  out.  .  .  . 
The  warm  softness  stirred  a  little.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  found  himself  looking 
into  two  blue  wells,  turned  upside  down. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Goldie  May.  "It 
doesn't  matter." 

The  good-looking  freshman  scowled.  His 
head  was  aching  and  he  did  not  wish  to  argue. 

"But  I  want  to  know,"  he  said. 

"I'm  just  a  girl,"  said  she. 

His  pain-filled  eyes  took  in  for  a  moment 
her  flushed  cheeks,  half-parted  lips,  and  the 
golden  glory  above.  Then  he  closed  them 
with  a  tired  sigh. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  said.  "You  must  be 
what  I  came  to  see." 

160 


Goldie  May 


Her  heart  began  to  beat  until  she  was 
afraid  he  might  notice  it.  Though  she  had 
told  him  so,  she  had  not  been  a  girl  until 
now.  She  had  been  a  mother,  holding  a  sick 
boy-child;  but  the  child  had  suddenly  grown 
up  and  become  The  Faithful  Servant. 

With  the  excitement  of  it  all,  his  coming 
had  not  seemed  remarkable.  To  find  his 
head  in  her  lap  seemed  somehow  quite 
natural;  but  this  was  when  he  lay  still  and 
helpless. 

He  opened  his  eyes  again. 

"Where's  Mother  Hubbard?"  he  asked. 

"He's  not  hurt,"  she  told  him.  "He  just 
went  to  the  front  of  the  store  to  look  for  the 
doctor." 

"I  don't  want  a  doctor!"  he  said,  and  sud- 
denly sat  up.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head 
uncertainly.  "Where's  my  hat?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Before  she  could  answer,  he  slid  from  the 
counter  and  lurched  for  the  door. 

When  Mother  Hubbard  called  on  the 
invalid  next  morning  the  good-looking  fresh- 
161 


The  Lucky  Seven 


man  was  alone.  He  had  decided  that  a  two- 
inch  gash  in  one's  scalp,  even  when  scien- 
tifically sewed  up,  was  reason  enough  to 
cut  lectures  for  a  day.  His  first  words  were 
not  about  the  accident. 

"Holy  Mackerel!"  he  exclaimed  when  he 
recognized  his  visitor.  "Does  she  always 
work  in  there?" 

Mother  Hubbard,  relieved  by  the  greeting, 
assumed  his  upperclassman  manner. 

"Yes,  freshman,"  he  said;  "she  always 
works  in  there.  Do  you  get  me?  —  she 
always  works  in  there!  And  that's  why 
you  see  before  you  a  bitter,  disappointed 
man." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"In  the  institution  of  which  you  are  an 
infinitesimal  atom  she  is  known  to  fame  as 
Goldie  May.  Some  of  us,  more  discerning 
than  the  rest,  call  her  The  Golden  Fleece. 
We  buy  chocolates  from  her — very  bad  choc- 
olates; she  takes  our  money.  That  is  all! 
You  get  the  aptness  of  the  simile?  Do  you, 
freshman?  Must  I  add,  for  the  benefit  of 
162 


Goldie  May 


your  childlike  mind,   that  we  are  all  busy 
little  questers?" 

"Maybe  she'd  go  to  a  show!"  said  the 
good-looking  freshman  after  a  silence. 

Mother  Hubbard  had  been  pacing  up  and 
down  as  they  talked.  He  came  to  a  dramatic 
halt. 

"Marvelous!  Marvelous!"  he  said.  "Dar- 
ing and  original!  The  thought  came  to  you 
like  a  flash,  didn't  it,  freshman?  Suppose 
you  try  it!" 

Three  days  later  the  gray  car,  with  new 
fenders  and  running  board,  glided  to  a 
sedate  stop  before  the  Archer  Drug  Store. 

Goldie  May,  for  some  reason,  had  been 
watching  the  door  all  day.  She  saw  him  as 
he  got  out  of  the  car.  She  saw  him  enter 
and  sweep  the  store  with  a  glance.  She  pre- 
tended not  to  see  him  as  he  marched  straight 
to  the  candy  counter.  When  he  reached  it 
he  found  a  busy  woman.  She  was  arranging 
candy  trays  and  was  so  completely  absorbed 
by  her  work  that  she  failed  to  notice  a  cus- 
tomer. 

163 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Good  morning!"  he  said. 

"Oh — excuse  me!"  said  she,  looking  up. 

"Remember  me?" 

Their  eyes  swam  together.  Her  friendly, 
impersonal  smile  was  far  away — it  would  not 
come  to  her  aid.  And,  to  make  things  worse, 
she  felt  her  cheeks  begin  to  flush.  This  was 
awful ! 

"You  haven't  forgotten  so  soon — you  re- 
member me,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  remember  you  now,"  she  said. 
"How's  your  head?" 

"I've  come  for  two  reasons,"  said  he, 
ignoring  her  question:  "First,  I  want  to 
thank  you  for  what  you  did,  and  tell  you  how 
much  I  appreciate  it;  and  then  I  want  to 
find  out  how  soon  I  may  come  and  take  you 
for  a  ride.  You  see,  we're  going  to  be  friends. 
We  just  can't  help  it." 

"I  didn't  do  anything." 

"Did  you  spoil  your  dress?" 

"No,  indeed — water  took  it  right  out." 

"That's  good,"  he  said.     "Now  when  will 
you  go  for  a  ride?    To-morrow?" 
164 


Goldie  May 


Thump!  Thump!  Thump!  went  her 
heart.  He  took  everything  so  for  granted! 
She  felt  all  shaky — inside.  Her  knees  too — 
the  silly  things! — they  didn't  want  to  hold 
her  up. 

"How  about  to-morrow?" 

"I  don't  want  my  head  cut,"  she  said, 
forcing  a  laugh. 

"Huh!"  he  said.  "Don't  let  that  worry 
you.  I  don't  always  stop  that  way." 

"I  haven't  time  to  go  riding.  I've  got 
to  be  here  to-morrow.  Do  you  want  some 
candy?" 

"No;  I  don't  want  any  candy.  When  do 
you  get  away?  Don't  you  get  a  day  off,  or 
something?" 

She  slid  back  a  door  of  the  case  and  straight- 
ened a  candy  tray.  "Friday  afternoon," 
she  said  in  a  whisper. 

"Good!"  he  said  cheerfully.  "I'll  pick  you 
up  at  the  other  end  of  the  bridge  at  two 
o'clock.  Is  that  too  early?" 

"No,"  said  Goldie  May,  still  in  a  whisper. 

"Thanks  awfully  for  what  you  di'd  the 
165 


The  Lucky  Seven 


other  evening.  Don't  forget  Friday.  Good- 
by!" 

"I  won't,"  said  she.    "Good-by!" 

Friday  came  at  last.  She  saw  the  gray  car 
across  the  bridge  when  she  was  still  a  block 
away.  Panic  seized  her  and  she  would  have 
fled  down  a  side  street;  but  he  had  seen  her, 
and  the  gray  car  swept  to  her  side  like  an 
albatross. 

"Hello,  Merry  Sunshine!"  he  said.  "Hop 
in!" 

They  sped  away,  following  the  river  for  a 
little.  Presently  she  was  at  her  ease  with 
him  and  wildly  happy.  He  joked  and  said 
foolish  things,  at  which  she  laughed — the 
wind  singing  in  her  ears. 

Suddenly  he  noticed  her  jacket  and  dis- 
approved of  it. 

"Your  coat's  too  light  for  motoring  to-day," 
he  told  her.  "You'll  catch  cold.  We'll  stop 
downtown  and  get  you  something  heavier." 

She  demurred  at  this.  She  told  him  she 
would  not  catch  cold  and  that  she  did  not 
want  anything  heavier.  He  hummed  some- 
166 


Goldie  May 


thing  about  "flowers  in  the  spring,  tra-la!" 
and  paid  no  attention  to  her.  She  became 
dignified  and  said  firmly: 

"I  won't  let  you  do  anything  like  that!" 

His  answer  was  to  stop  the  car  before  a 
store  in  the  shopping  district.  He  got  out 
and  held  up  his  hand  to  her. 

"Step  this  way,  please!"  he  said  in  a 
ridiculous  voice.  "No  trouble  to  show  goods !" 

She  did  not  want  to  laugh,  but  she  could 
not  help  it.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  per- 
fectly helpless — and  somehow  she  liked  it. 

"You  must  tell  me  what  it  costs  and  let  me 
pay  you  some  time." 

"Sure!"  he  agreed.  "We'll  jew  'em  down 
to  one-ninety-eight." 

And  when  he  told  the  man  what  he  wanted 
and  the  man  said,  "Ladies'  cloaks?  Step 
this  way,  please!"  they  giggled  all  the  way  to 
the  elevator. 

He  won  the  saleswoman  on  the  spot.    She 

enveloped  Goldie  May  in  a  long  white  miracle, 

woolly  and  soft  and   warm,   with   adorable 

pearl  buttons  and  an  awesome  satin  lining. 

167 


The  Lucky  Seven 


He  said  something  to  the  saleswoman  in  an 
undertone. 

"We'll  take  this  one,"  he  said  aloud. 
"It's  certainly  a  nice  coat  for  eight  dollars.'* 

"Isn't  it?"  said  the  saleswoman. 

But  Goldie  May  said  "Silly!"  to  him 
scornfully.  She  was  past  caring  by  this 
time — she  had  looked  at  herself,  front  and 
back,  in  the  long  triple  mirror. 

As  they  were  leaving  he  spied  a  French 
motor  bonnet  of  gray  velvet,  with  silver 
trimmings  and  a  turquoise-colored  feather. 
It  should  have  been  kept  in  a  jewel  box; 
but  when  they  climbed  back  into  the  machine 
its  ribbons  were  tied  in  a  wonderful  bow  just 
under  Goldie  May's  chin. 

Then  they  flew  away  to  the  country,  along 
the  edge  of  the  sea.  Miles  and  miles  they 
flew  and  then  swung  inland.  They  came 
home  through  hills  aflame  under  a  setting 
sun;  and  Goldie  May,  drugged  with  their 
flight  and  the  beauty  of  it  all,  put  up  her  lips 
in  an  ecstasy  when  he  drew  her  to  him,  as 
night  and  the  lights  of  the  city  came  on. 
168 


Goldie  May 


After  this  first  ride  there  followed  a  month 
of  Indian  summer,  with  more  rides,  and 
dinners  the  like  of  which  Goldie  May  had 
never  tasted  before. 

She  would  sit  across  the  table  from  him, 
her  face  like  a  flower  lifted  to  the  sun.  She 
saw  no  one  else.  They  were  the  only  real 
people  in  the  world!  Even  the  waiter — 
though  he  seemed  to  fulfill  his  destiny  by 
serving  them — was  a  phantom. 

Sundays  they  picnicked  in  the  country. 
In  the  autumn  woods  he  could  hold  her  in 
his  arms  and  feel  her  heart  beat  against  his, 
and  look  at  her — her  hair  tousled,  her  cheeks 
aflame — between  kisses.  The  wonder  of  this 
was  enough  for  a  time;  and  so  he  was 
content. 

Then  winter  came  suddenly,  and  the  rides 
and  the  country  and  the  hours  spent  close 
together  were  denied  them.  They  went  to 
shows.  Their  first  evenings  at  the  theater 
filled  Goldie  May  with  delight;  but  soon  she 
found  her  hand  stealing  through  the  darkness 
to  meet  his.  And  when  his  knee  touched  hers 
169 


The  Lucky  Seven 


she  forgot  the  people  on  the  stage,  and  they 
became  phantoms  too. 

As  for  him — he  became  more  and  more 
silent.  He  did  not  make  her  laugh  so  much 
when  they  dined  together.  He  would  look 
at  her — long  minutes — with  somber,  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

One  night  he  seemed  not  only  silent  but 
dejected.  She  watched  his  face  as  they  dined 
and  at  last  asked  him  timidly  what  was  the 
matter. 

"You  don't  seem  like  yourself — is  it  me? 
Have  I  done  anything?" 

"No;  bless  your  heart!"  he  said.  "You 
haven't  done  anything  but  be  sweet." 

"Well,  something's  wrong — I'm  not  having 
a  good  time." 

"Yes  —  Merry  Sunshine  —  something's 
wrong.  .  .  .  We're  not  going  to  see  each 
other  like  this  much  longer — I  have  to  go 
away." 

"Go  away!    Where?" 

"To  England.  I'm  not  going  to  school  here 
any  longer.  I'm  going  to  school  in  England. 
170 


Goldie  May 


I  got  the  letter  yesterday.  I  must  leave  here 
Friday.  .  .  .  It's  awfully  unexpected." 

It  was  awfully  unexpected;  and,  for  Goldie 
May,  the  world  just  came  to  an  end.  Before 
they  separated  that  night  he  told  her  they 
would  have  their  last  evening  together  on 
Thursday. 

Their  last  evening  began  with  a  dinner, 
which  neither  ate.  They  hated  the  table 
that  kept  them  so  far  apart.  When  the 
waiter  was  not  there,  and  no  one  seemed  to 
be  looking,  their  hands  clung  together  and 
parted  with  a  squeeze.  Suddenly  he  leaned 
across  the  table  and  she  instinctively  leaned 
to  meet  him. 

"Little  sweetheart,"  he  said,  "do  you  want 
to  spend  our  last  evening  at  a  theater?  .  .  . 
Let's  go  somewhere — where  we  can  be  alone." 

They  looked  deep  into  each  other's  eyes  for 
a  breathless  moment. 

"Yes— let's!"  said  Goldie  May. 

The  good-looking  freshman's  roommate  was 
worried.     He  suspected  there  was  a  process 
171 


The  Lucky  Seven 


unknown  to  him  that  would  make  every  hair 
lie  straight  back  from  his  forehead.  He  took 
his  eyes  from  the  looking-glass  reluctantly  as 
the  door  leading  into  the  hall  opened. 

"Hello,  Billy!"  he  said.  "Where  were  you 
last  night?  You  weren't  out  with  that  candy 
girl!" 

The  good-looking  freshman  hesitated  an 
instant — then  nodded. 

"Don't  you  breathe  it!"  he  said. 

"Why,  you  son-of-a-gun !"  said  his  room- 
mate admiringly.  "Say,  how  does  this  purple 
tie  look  with  this  shirt?" 

The  good-looking  freshman  did  not  answer. 
He  was  thinking  of  Goldie  May.  It  was 
tough  luck  that  he  had  to  leave  so  soon. 
He  would  run  over  from  New  York  next 
summer  when  he  came  back  from  abroad. 
He  would  not  let  her  know  he  was  coming. 
He  would  just  walk  into  the  drug  store  and 
surprise  her.  He  looked  at  the  clock  on  the 
desk — she  must  be  at  the  store  by  this  time. 

But  she  was  not  at  the  store.  She  had 
scarcely  stirred  since  he  left  her.  The  store 
172 


Goldie  May 


seemed  to  belong  to  another  life  that  she  had 
lived  long  ago.  In  that  life  a  girl  had  stood — 
safe  behind  her  candy  counter — and  met  them 
all  with  friendly,  impersonal  smiles. 

Another  girl  altogether  watched  a  new 
kind  of  sunlight,  with  no  gladness  in  it,  throw 
a  cold  shaft  through  the  window  into  a 
strange  room.  In  terror  of  that  sunlight  she 
feared  to  breathe.  She  dared  not  wipe  away 
her  tears  lest  the  big  grown-up  world  outside 
should  heed  them.  So  they  stole  down  her 
cheeks  in  silence,  the  end  of  a  childish  dream. 
The  tears  came  because  The  Faithful  Servant, 
after  all  these  years,  had  come — and  gone! 

"And  now  my  story  is  done."  I  seem  to 
have  left  out  Spike  Lavinsky,  and  Mrs. 
Talbot  Kingsbury  will  be  disappointed.  Well, 
somehow,  I  don't  think  Spike  belongs  in  the 
real  story  of  Goldie  May. 


IV 

RED  FOX  FURS 


IV 

RED  FOX  FURS 

MAY    his    soul    roast    forefer    in    hellf 
May  his  dirty  body  be  eaten  py  dogs 
ven  his  time  gomes,  und  may  it  be  as  soon 
as  Gott  can  kill  him!" 

"For  why,  Uncle  Fritz?" 

"Pecause  he  is  killing  Chermans.  Efery 
day  he  is  killing  Chermans  mit  his  powder 
und  pullets.  Into  the  hearts  of  Chermans 
they  are  going.  Loog  at  him — traidor, 
traidor,  traidor!"  The  newspaper  was  shak- 
ing as  though  it,  too,  were  vibrant  with 
hate. 

Elfrida  set  a  steaming  dish  on  the  table. 
"Can  I  have  it,  Uncle  Fritz?"  she  asked,  hold- 
ing out  her  hand.  She  stared  at  the  half-tone 
for  a  thoughtful  moment.  "I  have  seen  him," 
she  said  at  last. 

"You!    Vere?" 

177 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"I  cannot  say.  The  eyes  I  have  seen,  and 
not  in  pictures." 

"At  the  parber-shop,  maybe." 

"Perhaps,"  agreed  Elfrida.  "  'Frederick 
Traub/  "  she  read  aloud,  "  'who  has  just  closed 
another  fifty  million  dollar  contract  with  the 
British  government.'  "  She  lowered  the  news- 
paper. "Traub?"  she  said  inquiringly. 
"Traub?" 

A  dreadful  smile  tightened  the  old  man's 
lips  and  showed  a  ragged  line  of  long  yellow 
teeth. 

"His  fader  was  born  in  Bremen!" 

Elfrida  raised  the  newspaper  and  addressed 
the  picture  softly. 

"Pig,  dog,  swine!"  she  said. 

Supper  was  ready  soon  after  that,  a  goodly 
supper  which  began  with  pickled  hare  and 
wound  up  with  a  round  yellow  moon  of  a 
cheese  cake. 

Uncle  Fritz  said  grace  in  German. 

"God  bless  this  food  and  may  all  dear  ones 
hi  this  day  of  trial  have  so  much  as  will  give 
them  strength  to  destroy  the  devils  from  hell 
178 


Red  Fox  Furs 


let  loose  against  them.  God  bless  and  keep 
the  Fatherland  safe  from  swine's  feet,  and 
may  all  Germans  in  this  so-far  land  as  brothers 
cling  together,  hanging  by  the  heels  until  dead 
traitors  and  mockers.  Amen!" 

They  exchanged  few  words  at  supper. 
Uncle  Fritz  drank  huge  draughts  of  coffee 
audibly  and  smacked  his  lips  at  each  mouth- 
ful of  the  pickled  hare.  The  kettle  sang  on 
the  stove  just  behind  them,  its  insistent  voice 
rising  above  the  murmur  of  street  noises  four 
stories  down. 

At  last  Uncle  Fritz  pushed  back  his  chair 
with  a  sighing  grunt  of  repletion. 

"So  goot!"  he  said.  "Und  now  I  go  vere 
dey  will  be  maging  of  speeches  for  hearing 
py  der  newspaper  ninnies.  Berhaps  I  will 
make  a  speech,  vat?"  The  lid  fell  over  one 
pouched,  twinkling  eye.  Uncle  Fritz  was 
in  a  playful  humor  after  his  supper. 

"What  will  you  say,  Uncle  Fritz?" 

"Berhaps  I  vill  tell  how  to  be  regretted  id 
is  ven  der  boats  keep  going  town  mit  all  der 
liddle  neudrals.  Hein!"  Again  his  eyelid 
179 


The  Lucky  Seven 


descended.  "Berhaps  I  will  shpeak  aboud 
friendship,  so  great  it  is  between  us  Chermans 
und  dis  great  shtrong  lant  of  chellyfish.  Guns 
dey  do  nod  need  ven  dey  haf  der  lofing  goot- 
vill  of  der  Vaterlant.  Berhaps  I  vill  mage  a 
bolitical  speech;  ya.  Vat  can  be  equal  to  a 
school-teacher,  a  vind-bag,  und  a  fat  monkey 
mit  a  bea-eock's  tail  vat  blays  on  der  ships  of 
var  liddle  games  mid  soda-pop  und  grammer- 
pooks?  Ya,  id  is  better  ve  Chermans  be  goot 
temocrats  until  der  time  ven  ve  gome  galling 
on  our  lofing  neighbors  to  return  der  bowder 
und  pullets  which  dey  are  so  chenerous  to 
send."  Uncle  Fritz  prodded  his  pipe  bowl 
with  a  lean  finger  and  beamed  at  Elfrida. 

He  rose  and  took  his  shiny  green  overcoat 
from  the  walnut  hat  tree. 

"Gute  nacht^mein  kind"  he  said  when  El- 
frida had  helped  him  into  his  coat.  "Do  nod 
sid  up.  I  vill  be  lade." 

Elfrida  watched  his  stooping  form  to  the 

end  of  the  hallway.     Then  she  got  out  a 

furrier's  catalogue  and  pored  over  it  for  an 

hour  or  more.     At  ten  o'clock  she  went  to 

180 


Red  Fox  Furs 


bed.  She  lay  awake  for  some  time  trying  to 
imagine  how  she  would  look  in  a  set  of  red 
fox  furs  like  the  ones  Lilian  Sweeney  wore. 
They  cost  a  fortune — forty-six  dollars! 

The  Waldmore  barber-shop  is  two  stories 
under-ground.  It  is  reached  by  dropping  in 
a  velvet-running  elevator  from  the  utter 
magnificence  of  the  Waldmore  lobby  to  an 
austere,  rather  gloomy  hallway. 

The  barber-shop,  after  the  half-light  of  the 
hallway,  bursts  on  the  eye  like  a  snow  field 
beneath  a  midday  sun.  The  indirect  lighting 
seems  to  have  no  given  sources.  The  white 
tiles  of  the  flooring,  the  white  marble  of  the 
wainscoting,  the  white  walls  and  ceiling,  even 
the  white  linen  uniforms  of  the  barbers, 
brush-boys,  and  manicure  girls,  give  off  an 
unaccountable  radiance.  There  are  no 
shadows,  no  concealments.  The  Waldmore 
barber-shop  has  nothing  to  hide.  It  invites, 
with  warm  bright  friendliness.  It  persuades, 
with  glittering  geniality,  that  intrigue  of 
every  sort,  all  subtleties,  struggles,  fears,  of 
181 


The  Lucky  Seven 


the  devious  world  above,  may  be  discarded 
with  safety  at  its  marble-framed  entrance. 
Surely  no  malicious  thing  could  live  a  moment 
in  the  blazing  candor  of  this  room! 

A  thought  of  this  sort  was  responsible  for 
a  sigh  of  relief  that  came  from  the  deep 
chest  of  the  man  for  whom  Anton  was  ad- 
justing the  head-rest  of  a  chair.  It  was  re- 
sponsible for  a  desire  that  grew  within  him 
to  linger  in  this  friendly  chair  with  the  deft 
Anton — a  son  of  France — in  the  role  of 
guardian  angel. 

He  was  tired  to  begin  with;  not  so  much 
from  work  accomplished  as  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  things  undone.  The  driving  of  one 
hundred  thousand  workmen  at  top  speed, 
with  one  in  every  four  of  them  sullen  with 
secret  opposition  to  the  work  in  hand,  was 
only  a  part  of  it  all.  Minor  officials  were 
responsible  for  the  morale  and  efficiency  of 
the  human  units  that  figured  so  largely  in 
his  problem.  But  he,  so  he  felt,  was  re- 
sponsible for  the  lives  of  those  units,  and  he 
had  come  to  know  that  he  could  expect  no 
182 


Red  Fox  Furs 


help  from  his  own  bewildered  government, 
which  spoke  of  law  to  the  slaughtering  Hun 
and  penned  meticulous  platitudes  in  the  name 
of  humanity. 

Meanwhile  the  country  was  filled  with  fire 
and  dynamite.  They  were  handled  with  the 
same  boldness  that  the  Teuton  mind  brings 
to  every  venture.  There  was  a  blustering, 
bungling  sort  of  adroitness  about  it,  but  he 
had  obtained  positive  proofs  that  the  destruc- 
tion directed  at  his  plants  and  the  lives  of 
his  workmen  sprang  from  and  was  controlled 
by  the  German  foreign  office. 

With  his  proofs  he  had  gone  to  Washington. 
He  had  left  the  State  Department  with  tears 
of  shame  and  rage  in  his  eyes  and  the  oily 
evasions  of  the  chief  of  all  the  Demagogues 
in  his  ears. 

He  knew  of  course  that  his  own  life  was 
threatened.  Anxiety  for  his  workmen  had 
pushed  this  thought  aside  for  a  time.  But 
sixteen  hours'  work  a  day  was  beginning 
to  tell.  His  nerves  were  getting  out  of  hand. 
Sudden  footsteps  behind  him  caused  a  spas- 
183 


The   Lucky  Seven 


modic  tightening  of  the  muscles  of  his  back. 
Unexplained  sounds  at  night  left  him  listening, 
listening,  all  alert.  He  was  not  a  coward. 
If  they  "got"  him — well,  he  would  only  be 
one  of  millions  who  were  going  out  like 
candles  in  the  great  wind  of  war.  Not  as  a 
ooker-on.  Ah,  no,  despite  his  German  blood 
he  had  also  served.  His  mind  had  swept 
sentiment  aside  when  a  world  was  filled  with 
mounds  "of  twisted  dead  as  the  armies  of 
his  ancestors  flew  at  the  throat  of  Civiliza- 
tion. 

He  had  come  in  with  the  Allies,  heart  and 
soul.  He  had  been  the  man  of  the  hour  to 
marshal  America's  industrial  forces  quickly 
at  their  call.  He  was  making  guns  and  shells 
and  shrapnel  without  end,  and  a  staggering 
fortune. 

The  German-American  press  shrieked  that 
this  was  blood  money;  that  he  was  murdering 
his  own  for  millions.  In  reality  the  work 
meant  more  to  him  than  the  reward.  This, 
however,  would  have  made  no  difference  to 
four  or  five  million  citizens  of  a  free  land  who 
184 


Red  Fox  Furs 


cursed  him  daily  in  broken  English  or  throaty 
German. 

Well,  they  had  blown  out  women's  brains 
for  less,  and  their  hands  had  reached  across 
the  sea.  He  was  no  coward,  but  it  was  good 
to  be  there  in  the  clean  flooding  light,  where 
there  were  no  shadows,  with  Anton  bending 
above  him.  Perhaps  that  was  why  he  nodded 
when  Anton  suggested  a  shampoo. 

This  was  his  second  visit  to  the  barber-shop. 
He  had  dropped  in  the  day  before,  attracted 
by  the  light.  As  a  rule  a  barber  came  to 
his  apartments,  but  they  were  filled  with 
shadows.  This  was  better — much  better. 
He  was  glad  he  had  come.  He  would  come 
again.  The  place  was  so  light,  so  very  light 
— and  restful. 

"Vill  you  have  ze  manicure,  monsieur?" 
asked  the  attentive  Anton. 

Again  he  nodded. 

Anton  crooked  his  finger  at  a  flaxen-haired 
blue-eyed  young  person  who  came  silently 
to  the  chair. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  A  bell  boy  appeared 
185 


The  Lucky  Seven 


in  the  doorway.     "Mr.  Traub,  please!     Mr. 
Frederick  Traub!" 

"All  right,  what  do  you  want?"  said  the 
man  in  Anton's  chair. 

There  was  a  murmur,  a  rustle  at  that  end  of 
the  barber-shop.  Several  necks  were  craned. 

"So  that's  him,"  said  a  puffy-eyed  broker, 
who  had  dealt  to  his  extreme  advantage  in 
war  brides  but  was  losing  the  last  of  his  hair. 
His  barber  nodded,  and  for  a  moment  the 
electric  vibrator  throbbed  against  thin  air. 

The  man  in  Anton's  chair  was  inspecting  a 
card. 

"I'll  be  up  in  ten  minutes,"  he  told  the  boy; 
then  he  realized  that  his  left  hand  had  sud- 
denly been  released  by  soft  warm  fingers 
and  now  hung  at  the  side  of  the  chair.  He 
found  himself  staring  into  two  round  blue 
eyes.  They  seemed  unaccountably  hard, 
almost  hostile,  those  eyes.  The  half-parted 
red  lips,  too,  were  curling. 

"What's  the  matter,  sister?"  he  asked. 

Elfrida  took  his  hand  again.     Her  English 
suffered  when  she  was  excited. 
186 


Red  Fox  Furs 


"Bolish?"  she  asked  with  an  unmistakable 
accent. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  man  who  was  killing 
Germans. 

"He  vas  in  again  today,  madchen?" 
"Every  day  he  comes,  Uncle  Fritz." 
"Did  you  did  his  nails  again  yet?" 
"Not  since  Friday,  Uncle  Fritz.     Twice  a 
week  only  for  his  nails.    Tomorrow  is  Tues- 
day?" 

"Ya,  all  day  long  id  is  Tuesday." 
"Tomorrow  for  his  nails.    I  have  told  you 
twenty  times  already." 

Uncle  Fritz  puffed  at  his  pipe  and  stared 
at  Elfrida  through  a  thin  blue  haze  of  tobacco 
smoke.  Ten  minutes  passed  and  still  he 
stared.  Elfrida  made  no  effort  to  break  the 
silence.  He  had  been  like  that  the  last  few 
evenings — somber,  brooding,  addressing  her 
seldom,  but  staring,  always  staring  at  her  as 
she  knitted  or  read  or  sewed.  Now  and  then 
he  would  grunt  and  mutter  to  himself. 

His  moodiness  had  dated  from  the  night 
187 


The  Lucky  Seven 


when  he  had  sent  her  to  her  room  as  soon  as 
the  dishes  were  washed. 

"A  member  of  der  gommittee  vill  be  galling 
at  eight  o'clock,"  he  had  told  her.  "We  vish 
to  shpeak  alone." 

Elfrida  had  fallen  asleep  to  the  mutter  of 
voices  in  the  next  room.  Now  and  then  when 
the  voices  were  raised  she  had  caught  a 
sentence  or  so.  In  particular  she  had  heard, 
in  a  strange  voice:  "His  Excellency  ap- 
proves." Then  Uncle  Fritz  had  cried  out  in 
German:  "The  child  of  my  sister!  The 
child  of  my  dead  sister!" 

Elfrida  had  wondered,  drowsily,  why  he 
was  speaking  of  her  to  a  member  of  the 
mysterious  committee  and  with  that  harsh 
note  of  protest  in  his  voice. 

Late  that  night  she  had  been  wakened  by 
a  knocking  on  the  hall  door.  She  had  slipped 
on  her  wrapper  and  was  lighting  the  gas  when 
Uncle  Fritz  appeared  from  his  room  and 
ordered  hei  back  to  bed.  She  had  obeyed  but 
kept  her  eye  to  the  crack  of  her  bedroom  door 
to  see  who  could  be  calling  at  such  an  hour. 
188 


Red  Fox  Furs 


It  was  a  strange  young  man  with  a  white 
pasty  skin  and  wild  black  eyes  set  close 
together.  He  held  out  a  small,  round,  wooden 
box  to  Uncle  Fritz,  and  Elfrida  saw  that  his 
hand  was  stained  as  though  it  had  been 
dipped  in  yellow  dye. 

"It  was  not  ready  until  an  hour  ago," 
he  said.  "But  two  in  all  the  world  know 
what  it  is — Jacobi,  the  great  Jacobi  of  Vienna, 
and  I,  Heinrich  Schmit.  I  did  not  receive 
the  order  until  nine  o'clock  or  it  would  have 
been  ready  sooner." 

"Py  Gott,  id  is  soon  enough!"  said  Uncle 
Fritz. 

"A  scratch  of  the  skin,"  said  the  strange 
young  man.  "A  little  slip  is  all  that  is  needed. 
Under  the  nail  is  better,  perhaps.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Ya,"  said  Uncle  Fritz.  "Id  has  been 
explained  to  me  already." 

"Take  it,"  said  the  strange  young  man. 
"Are  you  afraid,  old  Prussian?" 

Uncle  Fritz  drew  the  sleeve  of  his  flannel 
nightgown  across  his  forehead. 
189 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"For  meinself,  no,"  he  said.     "For  others 

-yes." 

"Not  a  father,  not  a  mother,  in  Germany 
but  fears  for — others,"  said  the  strange  young 
man.  "This  is  a  little  box;  tomorrow  goes 
a  ship,  two  ships,  three  ships  from  this  port 
loaded  with  death  for  the  bravest  and  best 
in  the  Fatherland.  A  traitor  sends  them. 
A  jackal  that  grows  fat  from  lapping  the 
blood  that  flows  from  German  breasts.  This 
is  but  a  little  box!  Take  it,  old  Prussian!" 

"Ya,"  said  Uncle  Fritz  suddenly.  "I  vill 
take  id."  He  snatched  at  the  stained  fingers. 

The  strange  young  man  laughed  as  he 
reached  for  the  door  knob.  "Good  for  you, 
old  Prussian,"  he  said. 

Uncle  Fritz  stared  at  what  was  in  his 
hand  when  the  strange  young  man  had  gone. 
"Deutschland!  Deutschland!"  Elfrida  heard 
him  mutter.  ...  He  had  not  moved  when 
she  took  her  eyes  from  the  door  and,  tremb- 
ling with  the  cold,  climbed  noiselessly  into 
bed. 

Uncle  Fritz  had  stared  at  her  next  morning 
190 


Red  Fox  Furs 


as  she  cooked  the  breakfast.  He  had  con- 
tinued to  stare  and  mutter  ever  since.  At 
first  it  had  worried  her,  but  she  had  become 
accustomed  to  it  now.  It  was  only  Uncle 
Fritz,  she  thought,  even  though  his  eyes 
were  queer  and  glittering.  He  was  working 
so  hard  for  the  Fatherland.  He  was  an  old 
man  and  the  strain  was  beginning  to  tell. 
That  was  why  he  was  so  harsh  with  her  of 
late.  Nothing  she  did  seemed  to  please  him. 
Nothing  she  said  seemed  to  interest  him, 
except  when  she  told  him  of  the  visits  of  that 
man  to  the  barber-shop — that  man  who  was 
killing  Germans;  every  night  she  must  tell 
about  him.  She  had  had  a  splendid  day — 
nearly  four  dollars  in  tips.  Perhaps  after  all 
she  could  buy  a  set  of  red  fox  furs.  Later 
in  the  season  they  would  be  cheaper. 

Uncle  Fritz  interrupted  her  thoughts. 

"Madchen"  he  said  suddenly.  "Vere  is 
your  cousin  Max?" 

Elfrida  looked  up  quickly  from  the  furrier's 
catalogue. 

"What  a  question!"  She  raised  her  eyes 
191 


The  Lucky  Seven 


to  the  stained  and  tattered  ceiling.     "He  is 
with  God  I  hope." 

"Ya,  he  is  mit  Gott.  Und  your  cousin 
Maurice,  he  is  mit  Gott  alzo,  und  a  million 
more  haf  gone  to  Gott  mit  bloody  bubbles 
goming  from  der  mouths  und  der  guts 
trampled  in  der  mud." 

Elfrida  shuddered. 

"Don't  talk  so,  Uncle  Fritz." 

Uncle  Fritz  leaned  forward  in  his  chair 
and  leveled  his  pipe  at  her. 

"Vy  nod?" 

"It  makes  me  sick.  I — "  She  faltered  be- 
fore the  leveled  pipe  stem  which  was  shaking 
almost  in  her  face. 

"Sig!"  Uncle  Fritz  lowered  his  pipe  and 
cackled  sneeringly.  "So!"  he  said.  "A  Cher- 
man  mddchen  cannod  hear  how  Chermans 
die  for  her  lant — id  makes  her  sig!"  He 
leveled  his  pipe  again,  but  this  time  at  the 
door.  "Go,"  he  said.  "Go  oud  in  der  streed 
mit  der  chellyfish.  Dis  is  a  Cherman  house 
vere  der  is  some  iron  in  der  blood." 

Elfrida  met  his  look  squarely. 
192 


Red  Fox  Furs 


"Twice  lately  you  have  said  to  me  that 
thing,"  she  said.  "Twice  lately  you  have 
called  me  a  jellyfish.  Why  do  you  call  me 
that?" 

Uncle  Fritz  hesitated.  His  eyes  wavered. 
They  settled  by  chance  on  Elfrida's  saucy 
little  toque  perched  jauntily  on  a  peg  of  the 
hat  tree.  Suddenly  he  was  on  his  feet. 

"Pecause,"  he  roared,  "you  are  filling  mit 
Amerigan  monkey  tricks.  Loog  at  your 
hat — nod  so  big  as  a  peanud  yet!  Loog  at 
your  hair,  shkinned  tight  mit  your  head 
like  a  papoons!  Loog  at  your  skirt  und 
plush,  half  to  your  knees  is  id!  On  der 
shtreets  of  dis  city  of  chellyfish  I  see  by  der 
tousands,  such  skirts,  such  hats,  such  hair. 
Like  der  rest  of  der  chellyfish  you  haf  become 
— soft  und  scvirmy.  Der  vorld  is  running 
ret  mit  Cherman  blood.  Don't  shpeak  aboud 
blood — id  makes  you  sig!  Blenty  of  monkey 
skirts  und  hats  you  vill  haf  from  tips  vat 
gome  py  selling  pullets  to  der  English,  ya; 
but  don't  shpeak  aboud  blood.  Listen,  I 
vill  sing:  'My  coundry  'tis  of  dee,  shveet  lant 
193 


The  Lucky  Seven 


of — '  Vy  do  you  sid  ven  I  sing  der  great 
song  of  der  chellyfish?  Shtand  up,  shtand  up, 
chellyfish,  who  vas  vunce  a  Cherman  mad- 
chenl"  He  paused  and  showed  his  yellow 
teeth  in  a  mirthless  smile. 

"What  you  have  spoken,"  said  Elfrida 
stolidly  and  in  German,  "is  liar's  talk." 

"So,"  said  Uncle  Fritz.  "Vat  is  id  dot  you 
talk  aboud  all  vinter?  Is  id  der  news  from 
der  Vaterlant?  I  say  to  you,  'Miidchen, 
Von  Hindenburg  und  his  heroes  haf  drownt 
der  whole  lousy  Russian  army  in  a  svamp!' 
Does  id  mage  you  choyful  such  shplendid 
news?  "Herr  Gott,  in  a  minute  you  ask  me 
ven  I  dink  der  brice  of  bink  fox  furs  grows 
shmaller." 

Elfrida  shoved  the  furrier's  catalogue 
stealthily  behind  her. 

"Red,  Uncle  Fritz.    Red,  not  pink." 

"Ret!"  shrieked  Uncle  Fritz.  "Vot  do  I 
care  vether  id  is  ret  or  blue  or  green.  Id  is 
monkey  tricks.  A  chellyfish  you  are!" 

"It  is  not  so,"  said  Elfrida.  "Must  I  go 
naked  because  of  war?  If  I  could  help,  then 
194 


Red  Fox  Furs 


you  would  see.  What  can  I  do  but  pray? 
Each  night  I  pray  the  good  God  to  save  our 
dear  land.  I  was  not  born  a  man!  What 
else  can  I  do?" 

Uncle  Fritz  turned  away  and  walked  un- 
certainly about  the  room,  muttering  to  him- 
self. At  last  he  went  into  the  kitchen.  Elfrida 
saw  him  reach  to  a  shelf  on  which  was  kept 
a  bottle  of  schnaps.  She  heard  the  liquid 
gurgle  into  a  glass.  She  heard  him  gulp  and 
smack  his  lips.  Presently  he  stood  in  the 
doorway  looking  at  her  strangely. 

"So  a  Cherman  you  are,"  he  said.  "Und 
you  ask  vat  can  you  do?" 

"Yes,"  said  Elfrida. 

Uncle  Fritz  came  closer.  The  parchment- 
like  skin  of  his  face  seemed  gray  and  drawn. 
Two  spots  of  color  rose  muddily  to  the 
surface  at  the  cheek  bones. 

"Madchen!"  he  said  hoarsely.    "Madchen!" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Fritz." 

"A  Cherman  vill  give  all  vat  he  has  for  der 
Vaterlant.  Is  id  nod  so?" 

"Yes,"  said  Elfrida. 

195 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"His  life,  maybe?" 

"Yes,"  said  Elfrida,  the  color  leaving  her 
face. 

"A  million  haf  gone  to  Gott!  A  million 
py  his  traidor  pullets!"  Uncle  Fritz  drew 
himself  up  to  his  full  height.  His  shoulders 
straightened,  his  heels  came  together,  his 
arms  stiffened  at  his  sides.  He  seemed  to 
face  an  unseen  presence.  "Deutschland, 
Deutschland,"  he  whispered.  His  hand  fum- 
bled in  his  coat  pocket.  When  he  drew  it 
out  his  long  bony  fingers  were  clutched  about 
something.  He  came  to  the  table  and  placed 
that  something  on  the  oilcloth  cover  within 
arm's  reach  of  Elfrida.  It  was  a  small,  round, 
wooden  box. 

"You  ask  vat  can  you  do?" 

Elfrida  nodded,  wondering. 

"Open  der  box,"  said  Uncle  Fritz.  .  .  . 
" Vait,  vait !  Haf  you  a  sore  finger  anywhere?" 

Elfrida  examined  her  fingers  uneasily. 

"No,  my  fingers  are  not  sore,"  she  said. 
"Why  do  you  ask  such  a  funny  question?" 

"Pecause  in  dot  box — pecause  in  dot  liddle 
196 


Red  Fox  Furs 


box  is — is —    Open  id —  open  id!    Den  I  vill 
oxblain!" 

As  a  rule  he  went  to  the  barber-shop  in 
the  morning.  He  was  able  to  relax  when 
Anton  tilted  back  the  comfortable  chair  and 
he  was  outstretched  in  the  good  white  light. 
After  a  half  hour  in  the  flooding  brightness 
he  could  re-enter  a  shadow  filled  world, 
soothed,  confident,  himself.  This  lasted  for 
several  hours.  It  helped  him  to  meet  the 
larger  part  of  the  day's  work  when  at  his 
best. 

Now  and  then,  however,  affairs  would  rush 
upon  him  early  in  the  day  and  sweep  him  out 
of  all  routine.  When  this  happened  he  be- 
came irritable,  could  not  concentrate  and 
longed  for  his  little  hour  in  the  barber-shop 
with  an  intensity  which  amounted  to  a 
passion.  His  nerves  craved  the  barber-shop 
more  and  more  as  the  day  passed,  until  they 
seemed  to  take  voice  within  him.  They 
seemed  to  set  up  a  soundless  clamor  that  beat 
at  his  spine  and  the  back  of  his  head  and  his 
197 


The  Lucky  Seven 


temples.  They  seemed  to  call  for  light,  light, 
light,  and  security! 

Nine  o'clock  was  his  regular  hour,  but  today 
Sir  Edward  Trevor,  late  Colonel  of  Artillery, 
now  Something  or  Other  of  the  Department 
of  Ordnance  and  Supplies  of  his  Majesty's 
Government,  had  descended  on  him,  horse, 
foot  and  guns,  while  his  eggs  and  toast  grew 
cold. 

Guns!  Yes,  that  was  it,  guns!  Trevor 
wanted  them  produced  in  some  miraculous 
manner  from  thin  air  and  in  the  winking  of 
an  eye.  Machine  guns — fifty  thousand  of 
'em  for  a  starter. 

The  morning  had  crept  away  while  he 
explained.  He  lunched  with  Trevor  and  re- 
explained.  Would  the  man  never  go!  It 
was  now  after  two  and  his  nerves  were  as 
taut  as  piano  wires.  They  would  relax  in 
the  barber-shop  if  he  could  get  rid  of  Trevor! 
He  looked  at  his  watch  again.  .  .  . 

Downstairs  in  the  barber-shop  >Elfrida 
looked  at  the  big  white  enamel  clock  over  the 
door.  In  the  barber-shop  everything  was 
198 


Red  Fox  Furs 


white.     Perhaps  that  was  why  her  face  was 
white  as  she  sat  at  her  glass-topped  table. 

It  had  been  a  terrible  day.  She  had  watched 
the  door  and  the  clock,  the  door  and  the 
clock.  Each  time  someone  entered  her  heart 
charged  against  her  ribs  as  though  determined 
to  leap  out  of  her  body.  Then  it  would  grow 
fluttery  again  by  a  process  of  diminishing 
thumps.  What  if  it  would  tear  through  her 
breast  and  fall  beating  on  the  floor!  Every- 
one would  be  surprised.  It  would  be  so  red 
on  the  white  floor.  It  was  terrible  the  way 
it  had^acted  all  day.  When  it  was  someone 
else  who  came  in,  it  behaved  better  at  once. 
Perhaps  when  the  time  came  her  heart  would 
act  so  that  she  would  not  be  a  German  girl 
as  she  had  promised  Uncle  Fritz.  Perhaps 
she  would  be  a  jellyfish.  And  then  too  she 
might  be  busy  at  the  time  and  another  girl 
would  take  Anton's  chair.  If  so  would  she 
have  to  wait  until  Friday  and  do  it  then? 
That  was  too  much  to  expect  of  her.  Her 
heart  would  pound  itself  to  pieces  long  before 
then.  She  would  explain  this  to  Uncle  Fritz. 
199 


The  Lucky  Seven 


She  looked  at  the  clock  again.  It  was 
twenty  minutes  past  two  and  she  was  idle. 
Someone  was  coming  down  the  hall.  She 
watched  the  door.  .  .  .  He  came  in  walking 
briskly  and  nodded  to  Anton. 

"Dear  God,  dear  God,"  said  Elfrida  to 
herself.  She  took  hold  of  the  table,  but  swayed 
a  little  in  her  chair.  As  for  walking  across 
the  room!  Her  heart  was  acting  well — it 
had  stopped  entirely.  It  was  her  legs  that 
had  gone  back  on  her.  Yes,  she  was  a  jelly- 
fish after  all!  No,  only  her  legs  were  wobbly 
like  a  jellyfish.  This  man  was  killing  Germans 
with  his  ships  full  of  bullets.  And  there  was 
Max,  and  Maurice,  and  little  Fritz  who  was 
stilj  alive. 

Anton  beckoned  to  her. 

"Dear  God !"  prayed  Elfrida  silently.  "Put 
strength  in  my  legs,  dear  God,  for  the  Father- 
land!" 

She  rose  unsteadily   and  filled   her   bowl 

with  warm  water  from  the  silver  faucet  at 

her  table.     She  placed  her  instruments  on  a 

tray.     Then  she  opened  the  drawer  of  the 

200 


Red  Fox  Furs 


table.  In  the  drawer  was  a  small,  round, 
wooden  box.  It  was  filled  with  a  thin,  amber- 
colored  gum.  Elfrida  took  her  slender  man- 
icure scissors  from  the  tray.  The  points  of 
the  scissors  wavered  above  the  box  for  an 
instant,  then  were  dipped  twice  in  the  amber- 
colored  gum. 

The  man  who  was  killing  Germans  was 
having  his  hair  washed.  His  head  was 
crowned  with  white  lather  and  Anton's  busy 
fingers  when  Elfrida  reached  his  side.  She 
managed  to  fix  her  bowl  to  the  chair  arm. 
Then  her  knees  gave  way  and  she  sank  to 
her  work  stool. 

The  man  who  was  killing  Germans  nodded 
to  her. 

"Hello,  sister,"  he  said  with  a  tired  smile. 
"How  goes  it  today?" 

Elfrida's  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came 
from  them.  She  took  his  hand  and  bowed 
her  flaxen  head  above  it  to  avoid  his  deep- 
set  gray  eyes.  Then  he  and  Anton  chatted 
together  quite  like  old  friends. 

The  talk  swung  round  to  what  men  longed 
201 


The  Lucky  Seven 


for  most.  Often,  they  decided,  it  was  for 
something  trivial — so  trivial  that  they  kept 
this  great  desire  hidden  from  the  knowledge 
of  their  family  and  friends. 

"Now  I,"  said  the  man  who  was  killing 
Germans,  "would  give  'most  anything  I  have 
to  play  the  flute.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  had 
an  Uncle  who  played  the  flute  in  the  orchestra 
at  Bremen.  I  would  listen  to  him  practise  by 
the  hour.  He  kept  pigeons  and  bees.  We 
would  sit  on  a  wooden  bench  in  his  little 
garden  with  our  backs  against  the  pigeon 
loft.  The  pigeons  cooing  sounded  like  other 
flutes,  and  the  bees  hummed  an  accompani- 
ment. I  have  kept  pigeons  for  a  long  time, 
and  bees,  but  I  cannot  play  the  flute." 

Then  Anton  confessed  that  for  years  he 
had  wanted  a  chicken  farm.  He  wanted  to 
raise  fine  chickens — Black  Minorcas  in  par- 
ticular. "Ze  finest  sheeken  in  all  ze  vorld," 
said  Anton.  "Supairb,  magneeficent." 

"And  how  about  the  girls?"  asked  the  man 
who  was  killing  Germans.    "How  about  you, 
sister?    What  is  it  you  want  most?" 
202 


Red  Fox  Furs 


Elfrida  had  finished,  somehow,  with  the 
clippers  and  the  file  and  had  taken  up  the 
nail  scissors. 

They  gleamed  and  flickered  in  the  flooding 
light,  for  Elf  rida's  hand  was  shaking.  She  raised 
her  eyes,  blue  no  longer,  but  dark  purple,  as 
she  answered  mechanically:  "Red  fox  furs." 

"  'Red  fox  furs,'  "  repeated  the  man  who  was 
killing  Germans.  "How  long  have  you  wanted 
them?" 

Her  dry  lips  moved  again.  "This  winter 
and  last." 

The  man  who  was  killing  Germans  looked 
at  her  thoughtfully.  She  was  a  little  thing, 
far  from  strong.  She  was  quite  white  and 
nervous.  He  could  feel  her  fingers  trembling. 
This  child  was  unstrung — overworked,  no 
doubt.  His  own  sick  nerves  made  him  more 
acute  in  these  matters. 

"How  much  do  they  cost?"  he  asked. 

The  points  of  the  nail  scissors  were  de- 
scending. They  became  motionless  while 
she  answered: 

"Forty-six  dollars  at  Sleegal's." 
203 


The  Lucky  Seven 


The  man  who  was  killing  Germans  man- 
aged to  get  his  hand  under  the  rubber  apron 
which  seemed  to  flow^from  his  neck  in  all 
directions.  His  hand  appeared  with  some 
difficulty  at  last.  It  crossed  his  body  to  the 
other  hand  on  which  Elfrida  was  working. 

"Get  them,  sister!"  he. said.  "Get  them 
today!" 

A  crisp,  new  bill  fell  into  Elfrida's  lap.  It 
lay  in  her  white  apron  half  unfolded.  It  was 
the  color  of  stained  fingers  that  had  been  dipped 
in  yellow  dye.  It  was  the  color  of  amber  gum ! 

"God  in  Heaven!"  said  Elfrida. 

The  nail  scissors  tinkled  as  they  struck 
the  floor.  They  lay  neglected  on  the  white 
tiles,  for  Elfrida  was  clinging  to  the  big  hand 
of  the  man  who  was  killing  Germans,  sob- 
bing as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

Uncle  Fritz  was  waiting  for  her  when 
she  came  in,  breathless  from  her  run  up  the 
stairs.  He  had  been  waiting  all  day.  He  was 
crouched  over  the  table,  his  eyes  glittering, 
his  face  drawn  and  gray. 
204 


Red  Fox  Furs 


"Veil?"  he  said  in  a  whisper.    "Veil?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  Fritz—"  Elfrida  faltered. 

"Shpeak,  shpeak — vot  happened?" 

"The  box— the  little  wooden  box—" 

"Ya,  ya— vat  aboud  id?" 

"I  lost  it!" 

"You  losd  id?" 

Elfrida  nodded. 

Uncle  Fritz  exhaled  his  breath  in  a  tremen- 
dous sigh.  His  color  came  slowly  back.  But 
he  gave  her  a  terrible  look  when  she  ventured 
a  quick  glance  at  the  mirror. 

"Shtand  avay  from  dot  looging-class !" 
he  bellowed.  "Vat  haf  you  got  arount  your 
neck— chellyfish?" 


V 
AUGUSTA'S  BRIDGE 


V 

AUGUSTA'S  BRIDGE 


IT  WAS  something  of  a  coincidence  that 
Augusta  and  I  were  born  at  precisely  the 
same  hour  on  precisely  the  same  day.  It 
pleased  both  families,  so  I  have  been  told,  to 
couple  us  during  infancy  in  romantic  specu- 
lations. We  were  thrown  together  by  smirk- 
ing nursemaids  when  we  could  barely  toddle. 
Our  childhood  was  afflicted  by  the  jeers  of 
playmates.  In  spite  of  all  this  we  became 
inseparable. 

As  far  back  as  I  can  remember  I  counted 
on  Augusta.  I  learned  to  slink  dismally  to 
her  when  in  trouble.  I  learned  to  strut 
before  her  as  she  turned  pink  and  breathless 
at  some  tiny  triumph.  On  our  twenty-first 
birthday  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  She 
was  sweet  about  it  and  cried  a  little. 
209 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"But,"  said  she,  "I'm  only  a  habit  with 
you,  my  dear.  Some  day  you'll  fall  in  love." 

"In  love!"  I  said.  "I  am  in  love.  What 
must  I  do — drool  at  the  moon?  That  only 
happens  in  books." 

"It  happens,"  said  Augusta  softly,  "here!" 
Her  hand  pressed  some  lacy  stuff  just  over 
her  heart. 

"Rot!"  I  told  her.     "How  do  you  know?" 

She  flushed  and  turned  away  and  did  not 
answer. 

For  the  next  four  years  Augusta  suggested 
the  paths  my  tentative  wooings  should  take. 
I  followed  them  dutifully,  but  found  them 
empty  of  the  thrills  she  promised. 

And  then  one  day  I  nearly  lost  her.  Be- 
cause of  her  absurd  notion  that  my  habit, 
as  she  called  herself,  was  between  me  and  a 
mythical  passion,  she  nearly  accepted  Douglas 
Winthrop  the  last  time  he  proposed.  She 
slipped  away  from  him  when  his  arms  had 
all  but  closed  about  her,  and  came  like  a 
breeze  down  the  drive  to  where  I'was  feeding 
ginger  cookies  to  Blather  and  Beedo  Beed. 
210 


Augusta's  Bridge 


"Well!"  I  said,  not  looking  at  her. 

"I  couldn't,"  she  said.  "I  thought  I  could 
until — the  last  minute,  and  then  I  couldn't." 

"That  being  the  case,"  I  said,  "will  you 
kindly  step  in  here  behind  these  gooseberry 
bushes?" 

Presently  she  tightened  her  wrists  at  the 
back  of  my  neck. 

"Boy,  oh,  Boy,"  she  said,  "it  comes  once 
to  everyone,  I  think.  You'll  meet  her,  some 
day,  and  then — " 

"Silly  ass,"  I  interrupted.  "I  won't  be 
paying  any  attention  to  that  sort  of  thing. 
I'll  be  seeing  that  Dick  Deadeye,  Chief  of 
Scouts,  does  a  little  arithmetic  now  and  then." 

Instead  of  the  scornful  look  which  I  got 
as  a  rule  when  I  dared  greatly,  her  eyes 
widened,  deepened;  then,  quite  to  herself  and 
staring  off  at  the  garden:  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"that  may  save  the  day." 

I  cannot  remember  why  I  selected  Jummy 

Leeds  to  stand  up  with  me.     He  was  still 

working  for  his   M.D.   and  smelled,   at  all 

times,  of  iodoform.    Besides  this  he  had  the 

211 


The  Lucky  Seven 


manner  and  presence  of  a  grampus.  He 
lived  next  door,  however,  and  I  presume  the 
gap  in  the  hedge  between  the  two  places, 
which  was  not  quite  grown  together,  decided 
me. 

As  it  turned  out,  Jummy  contrived  to  have 
a  hole  in  his  pocket,  which  led  into  the  lining 
of  his  waistcoat.  When  urged  at  the  proper 
moment  to  produce  a  ring  he  seemed  to  at- 
tempt an  abdominal  operation  on  himself. 
It  was  a  failure,  and  I  tore  his  seal  ring  from 
him,  slipped  it  over  two  of  Augusta's  fingers, 
and  so  was  married. 

Douglas  Winthrop  did  not  come  to  the 
wedding.  He  was  trying  an  important  case 
that  day,  so  he  wrote  Augusta.  He  sent 
four  superb  candlesticks,  a  little  too  massive, 
I  thought,  and  his  best  wishes. 

Some  few  months  after  that  I  was  swinging 
Augusta  in  the  swing.  The  seat  was  a  board 
with  notches  for  the  rope.  I  had  swung  there, 
a  whalebone  youngster,  tough  as  leather,  ten 
hundred  times.  I  could  have  fallen  from  the 
tree  top  without  harm;  but  when  Augusta 


Augusta's  Bridge 


was  well  out  and  up  and  away  from  me,  the 
board  decided  to  break  in  half. 

"You  fool!"  said  Doctor  Leeds,  Jummy's 
father,  two  hours  later.  "You  young  fool!" 

"I  didn't  know,"  I  stammered.  And  then, 
because  he  had  lanced  a  boil  of  mine  long 
before  and  I  had  been  afraid  of  him  for  years, 
I  added:  "She  hadn't  told  me." 

He  laughed  at  that,  not  a  pleasant  laugh, 
and  went  upstairs  again. 

Augusta  was  well  in  six  weeks  or  so — 
that  is,  she  seemed  well;  but  the  days  ran  into 
weeks,  the  weeks  into  months,  the  months 
into  years,  and  the  Chief  of  Scouts  failed, 
somehow,  to  join  us. 

I  did  not  miss  him — at  first,  that  is.  Quiet, 
efficient,  grave-eyed,  Augusta  was  enough  for 
a  time. 

And  even  later,  when  the  house  seemed  very 
still  and  my  work  would  not  altogether  shut 
out  that  stillness,  I  could  call  from  my 
window  to  Miss  Mouse,  playing  in  the  Leeds' 
yard,  with  one  eye  on  my  btudy. 

She  was  twelve  and  I  was  the  most  inter- 
213 


The  Lucky  Seven 


esting  of  all  her  possessions,  including  the 
yellow  kitten,  which  had  lost  its  voice  and 
mewed  horribly  without  a  sound. 

Then  suddenly  she  was  fourteen  and  no 
longer  insisted  that  she  would  marry  me 
when  she  grew  up.  Our  games  changed,  they 
became  less  make-believe,  and,  therefore, 
less  real.  I  found  myself  involved  in  com- 
positions which  began:  "Dilagents  is  the 
cheef  necessity  of  mankind,"  and  ended: 
"And  so  you  see  we  must  be  dilagent." 

Soon  after  that  she  was  sent  away  for  two 
years  at  boarding  school,  her  summers  to  be 
spent  abroad.  The  stillness  in  the  house 
became  a  shout,  which  drove  me  to  long 
fishing  or  shooting  trips  in  the  calmer  stillness 
of  the  woods. 

Augusta  did  not  mind.  "Come  back  when 
you  are — rested,"  she  would  say. 

And  now  I  must  write  slowly,  and  tell 
exactly  what  happened  when  we  had  been 
married  seven  years. 

Doctor  Leeds  had  died  and  Jummy,  despite 
his  elephantine  bedside  manner,  had  acquired 
214 


Augusta's  Bridge 

an  enviable  deftness  with  his  big  fingers, 
and  could  snip  away  one's  appendix  with 
the  best  of  them. 

He  used  his  father's  old  consulting  room 
in  the  west  wing.  It  was  only  a  step  across 
the  lawn  from  my  study  to  the  ground-glass 
door.  I  took  to  sliding  through  the  gap  in  the 
hedge  and  smoking  a  bedtime  pipe  with  him. 

One  night  a  phonograph  burst  into  synco- 
pation from  somewhere  in  the  house.  I 
raised  inquiring  eyes. 

"The  kid,"  said  Jummy.  "Got  back  to-day. 
Brought  it  with  her.  Going  to  teach  me  the 
new  dances."  He  grinned. 

"I  think  I'll  go  in,"  I  said.  "Has  she 
grown  any?" 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Jummy. 

I  understood  him  a  moment  later  when  I 
had  crossed  the  hall  and  followed  the  sound 
of  the  phonograph  to  the  living  room.  She 
was  tilting,  floating  with  the  music — and  a 
tall  flower  swaying  in  a  breeze  was  coarse,  was 
clumsy,  in  comparison.  I  watched  from  the 
darkness  of  the  hall  until  the  record  was  over. 
215 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Hello,  Miss  Mouse,"  I  said  from  the 
doorway.  "I've  come  to  pull  your  hair." 

She  flashed  about  on  me.  "You  can't, 
Gee  Gee,"  she  cried,  turning  her  head  to 
show  its  smooth,  dark  coils.  "It  isn't  pullable, 
you  see." 

"You're  not  Miss  Mouse  any  more  then, 
are  you?"  I  asked,  coming  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  but  gave  me  her  hand 
quite  formally. 

"Well  then,"  I  said,  "I  think  I'll  have  to 
have  a,  kiss.  Just  like  that — " 

"I  hoped  you  would,"  she  said.  "Have  I 
changed  very  much?  Do  you  think  you'll 
like  me?" 

"Good  Lord!"  I  said,  quoting  Jummy. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  I  told  Augusta. 
"Catherine  Leeds  is  home,"  I  said.  "Quite 
grown  up  and  absolutely  lovely." 

"Yes,"  said  Augusta,  "she'll  have  her 
mother's  beauty.  I  wonder  if  she'll  still 
trail  round  after  you  with  big,  adoring  eyes." 

I  smiled  a  wry  smile.  "Well,  hardly,"  I 
said.  "Wait  until  you  see  her." 


Augusta's  Bridge 

When  I  got  to  my  study  Miss  Mouse  was 
just  beyond  the  hedge,  watching  my  window. 

"Go  away,"  I  said  as  I  had  said  so  many 
times  before.  "Go  play  with  the  kitten. 
I'm  busy." 

"I  want  to  dance,"  said  she,  "and  Jummy 
won't.  Will  you?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said. 

"I  want  to  try  some  steps,"  she  went  on. 
"Do  you  know  the  one-step?" 

"It's  one  of  those  new  dances,  isn't  it?" 
I  asked. 

"New!"  she  said,  aghast.  "They've  been 
dancing  it  for  two  years!" 

"I  haven't  danced  for  five  years,"  I  told 
her.  "But  if  you'll  go  away  now  I'll  come 
over  this  evening,  and  you  may  see  if  I  can 
learn." 

I  could  and  did  learn.  Miss  Mouse  was 
delighted.  I  promised  to  come  for  tea  next 
day  and  dance  with  her.  I  did  come  for  tea 
next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next. 

We  became,  as  the  summer  passed,  more 
and  more  proficient,  so  that  people  took  to 
217 


The  Lucky  Seven 


dropping  in  to  watch.  Older  people  at  first, 
who  disapproved  of  the  new  dances,  as  they 
were  called  at  that  time,  and  who  later  would 
be  the  maddest  of  them  all.  Then  the  younger 
crowd  began  to  come,  and  begged  to  be 
taught,  and  Miss  Mouse  and  I  gave  lessons. 
After  an  hour  or  more  with  the  beginners  we 
would  float  away  together,  while  awed  strug- 
glers  watched  earnestly  and  with  sinking 
hearts. 

Augusta  came  quite  often  but  did  not 
dance.  She  had  never  danced  well,  even  in 
the  old  days,  and  she  had  grown  heavier 
since  then.  I  persuaded  her  to  try,  but  gave 
it  up  when  I  found  that  our  efforts  together 
were  agonizing. 

"Don't  drag  me  about  any  more,"  she 
would  say.  "There's  that  lovely  Boston. 
Go  dance  it  with  Catherine.  I  want  to 
watch  you." 

That  I  should  have  given  so  much  of  what 

I  regarded  as  my  precious  time  to  this  sort 

of  thing  was  unbelievable.     A  letter  or  two 

from  my  publisher,  asking  for  a  manuscript 

218 


Augusta's  Bridge 


past  due,  set  me  at  work  for  three  whole  days, 
although  Miss  Mouse  came  to  the  hedge  and 
informed  me  that  she  was  having  a  dreadful 
time  and  that  I  was  spoiling  everything.  On 
the  fourth  afternoon  someone  knocked  on 
my  study  door. 

"Come,"  I  said. 

Miss  Mouse  walked  boldly  in,  helped 
herself  to  an  easy-chair  and  regarded  me 
silently. 

"You  know  this  isn't  allowed,"  I  told  her. 

"Are  you  coming  over  to  dance?"  she 
demanded. 

"I  think  not,"  I  said. 

"I'm  very  unhappy,  Gee  Gee,"  said  Miss 
Mouse. 

I  felt  my  heart  leap  curiously. 

"Life  is  not  all  dancing,"  I  said.  "It's  all 
right  for  you  kids,  but  I,  unfortunately,  must 
work.  You  can  dance  with  the  others. 
There's  the  Kelser  boy  and  Jimmy  Lathrop 
and  a  dozen  more.  Why  do  you  come  and 
bother  me?  Go  pick  on  somebody  your  own- 
age!" 

219 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"I'm  very  unhappy,"  said  Miss  Mouse 
again. 

I  wanted  to  ask  why,  but  thought  swiftly 
better  of  it. 

"You're  a  spoiled  brat,"  I  said.  "I'll 
dance  with  you  to-day — wait  a  moment — pro- 
vided you  do  not  bother  me  again  this  week." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Gee  Gee,"  said  Miss 
Mouse. 

Late  that  night  I  thought  of  that  sudden 
leap  of  my  heart.  It  was  disconcerting. 
I  d{d  not  sleep  until  I  told  myself  that  I 
would  go  at  once  to  Michigan  on  a  fishing 
trip. 

I  went  next  day  and  fished  the  Big  Sturgeon 
for  a  month.  For  half  of  it  the  wilderness 
seemed  to  whisper  "I'm  very  unhappy"  at 
every  pine-hung  bend.  Then  the  trout  came 
thick  and  fast  and  the  wilderness  grew 
speechless.  I  came  home  fit,  sunburned  and 
cured  of — what?  I  dared  not  name  it. 

Augusta  greeted  me  from  behind  the  vines 
of  the  porch  as  I  came  up  the  walk,  rod  case 
in  hand. 

220 


Augusta's  Bridge 


"I'm  glad  you're  back,"  she  said  when  I 
had  kissed  her.  She  held  my  hands  in  hers 
closely  for  a  moment.  "I've  missed  you 
quite  a  lot  this  time." 

"Good  girl,"  I  said.  "It's  good  to  know 
you  can  feel  like  that  after  these  years." 

"Only  seven,"  said  Augusta.  "Has  it 
seemed  long  to  you?  Oh,  it  hasn't  seemed 
long  to  you,  has  it?  If  I  thought  it  had  I'd — " 

"Hush,"  I  interrupted.  "What's  happened 
lately — anything?" 

"The  town's  gone  mad,"  said  Augusta — 
"dancing  mad.  They  dance  all  day  and  most 
of  the  night.  You've  been  missing  it.  Did 
you  have  good  fishing?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  I  broke  my  best  rod. 
Had  a  fall  and  rolled  all  the  way  down  the 
rapids.  So  I've  been  missing  it,  have  I? 
Has  Catherine  found  a  partner?" 

Augusta  laughed.  "A  partner!"  she  said. 
"My  dear,  they  hang  about  her  in  swarms. 
Mrs.  Leeds  is  delighted,  of  course,  but  a 
little  worried,  I  think.  She's  such  a  tre- 
mendous success,  and  willful  too,  perhaps. 
221 


The  Lucky  Seven 


She's  been  taking  long  motor  rides  of  which 
her  mother  doesn't  approve,  but  somehow 
can't  seem  to  stop.  I'm  afraid  you're  cut 
out,  old  married  man.  The  Jeffrey  boy  is 
the  one  who  takes  her  motoring.  Agnes 
Jeffrey's  son.  He  was  at  New  Haven  this 
year  and  dances  beautifully." 

As  Augusta  finished  I  felt  a  pang  like  a 
knife  stab.  It  lasted  only  an  instant.  It 
left  me  as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  but  with  a 
hopeless  hollow  feeling,  with  dry  lips  and  my 
knuckles  white  on  the  railing.  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  curious  hatred  of  life  and  what 
went  to  make  it  up.  I  hated  the  rays  from 
the  setting  sun  streaming  through  the  vines. 
I  hated  the  porch  and  its  furnishings.  I 
almost  hated  Augusta,  sitting  there,  calm 
as  the  evening,  unalterable  as  fate.  By  no 
miracle  of  the  mind  could  she  become  a  flame 
of  a  girl  into  whose  eager,  pulsing  life  sleek 
youths  were  crowding  until  at  last  one  of 
them  would  take  the  radiant  mystery  of  her 
for  his  own. 

And  then  I  heard  footsteps,  light,  rapid, 
222 


Augusta's  Bridge 

but   beating   through   me    like   a   throbbing 
heart. 

They  took  the  porch  steps  in  four  staccato 
beats  and  Miss  Mouse  stood  there,  her  bare 
throat  and  arms  turned  to  pink  ivory  in  the 
last  of  the  sunlight,  and  the  dusk  of  evening 
in  her  eyes. 

"I  saw  you  from  the  window,"  she  said. 

It  came  to  me  that  from  this  instant  life 
was  to  be  a  problem.  I  would  solve  it  as 
best  I  could.  How,  must  be  worked  out. 
I  must  work  at  it  from  day  to  day.  Each 
day  a  problem  in  itself.  A  problem  in  which 
one  searched  for  the  unknown  x  of  tranquillity 
through  a  sum  of  aching  hours. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  faltered  Miss 
Mouse.  "Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that? 
What's  the  matter  with  him,  Aunt  Augusta?" 

I  heard  Augusta  rise  and  come  toward 
me. 

"He's  a  savage,"  she  explained;  "he's  just 
out  of  the  woods.    Perhaps  he  takes  you  for 
a  wood  nymph."    Then  she  spoke  my  name 
and  I  felt  her  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
223 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Now  for  it,"  I  thought.  "It  begins  with 
lies." 

I  laughed — easily  it  seemed  to  me.  "When 
you  came  up  the  steps,"  I  explained,  "it 
came  over  me  that  you  were  spindly-legged, 
pigtailed  and  freckle-nosed  just — yesterday. 
And  now  look  at  you!" 

"I  still  have  three  freckles,"  said  Miss 
Mouse.  "Look!"  She  touched  the  bridge 
of  her  nose  with  the  tip  of  her  finger. 

"While  you  two  discuss  freckles,"  said 
Augusta,  "I  must  tell  the  cook  to  have  more 
of  a  dinner  than  I'd  planned.  Will  you  stay, 
Catherine?" 

"I'd  love  to,"  said  Miss  Mouse.  She 
perched  herself  on  the  porch  railing  and 
stared  at  the  doorway  through  which  Augusta 
had  disappeared. 

Her  look  was  tense  and  a  little  troubled,  I 
thought.  She  turned  it  on  me  at  last. 

"Something  has  happened  to  me,  Gee  Gee," 
she  said.  "I  think  I'll  tell  you.  I've  always 
told  you  everything." 

I  nodded  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
224 


Augusta's  Bridge 

"Since  you  went  away,"  said  Miss  Mouse, 
"I've  been  doing  things  that  mother  doesn't 
like.  I  don't  know  what  got  into  me  ex- 
actly. I  couldn't  sit  still  a  minute.  I  just 
couldn't  stand  the  house  and  Jummy  and 
mother  and — everything.  I  had  to  keep 
going  every  second.  I  had  to  dance  like  mad, 
or  motor  like  mad,  or  something,  all  the 
time.  If  I  just  sat  still  I  wanted  to  scream. 
Do  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Go  on,"  I  said. 

"I've  done  dreadful  things,"  said  Miss 
Mouse.  "I've  gone  motoring  alone  with 
Carl  and  Eldridge  and  a  lot  with  Walter 
Jeffrey,  and  I  made  them  speed — imagine  if 
mother  knew.  I  flirted  with  all  of  them — 
oh,  with  dozens.  I've  been  sort  of  crazy." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'flirted'?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Mouse. 

"But  I  don't,"  I  said. 

She  avoided  my  eyes.  "Well,  I  let  them  hold 
my  hand,"  she  explained.  "And  I've  squeezed 
back  a  little — sometimes.  Oh,  you  know." 

"Is  that  all?"  I  asked. 
225 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Nearly,"  said  Miss  Mouse.  'Don't  look 
at  me  like  that,  Gee  Gee,  or  I  can't  tell. 
Walter  has — held  me  in  when  we  went  fast — 
three  or  four  times." 

"Kind  of  him,"  I  sakL 

"I  won't  tefl  you  any  more,"  she  cried, 
and  sprang  off  the  railing  and  away  from 
me. 

"Come  back  here,  Miss  Mouse,"  I  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  I  stood  where  I  was 
and  waited.  She  came  back  slowly. 

"Well,  what?"  she  asked. 

"Go  on,"  I  said. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Then  all  in  a 
breath  she  shot  at  me:  "Fve  smoked  cigar- 
ettes, I  drank  a  cocktail — two  of  them.  I've 
let  Walter  Jeffrey  k-kiss  me." 

The  tears  ran  over. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Gee  Gee,"  she  said,  wiping 
her  eyes.  "I've  had  a  funny,  reckless  feeling. 
I've  been  wanting  something — I  didn't  know 
what.  I  kept  trying  things.  That's  why  I 
let  him  kiss  me — to  see  if  that  was  it." 
226 


Augusta's  Bridge 

"Well,  was  it?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  didn't  like  it?"  I  asked.  I  waited  a 
long  time  for  an  answer.  It  was  a  confession 
when  it  came. 

"A  little,"  she  said,  and  then  quite  suddenly 
she  was  sobbing  in  my  arms.  "Oh,  Gee  Gee," 
she  gasped,  "I  liked  it  because  I  closed  my 
eyes  and  pretended  it  was  someone  else." 

How  long  I  held  her  close  against  me  I 
cannot  say.  At  last  I  heard  a  sound  in  the 
hall.  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  and  won- 
dered if  I  saw  something  white  move  in  the 
darkness  of  the  hall  and  disappear.  .  .  .  Au- 
gusta was  in  white. 

"I'm  going  home  now,"  whispered  Miss 
Mouse  presently. 

"Yes,"  I  whispered  back,  "I  think  you'd 
better." 

I  was  still  wondering  about  that  shade  of 
white  in  the  hallway  when  I  went  in  to  dinner. 

"Catherine  changed  her  mind  about  stay- 
ing," I  told  Augusta,  'Td  like  a  cocktail, 
if  you'll  ring,  please." 

227 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Augusta  smiled  at  me,  her  grave  eyes 
calm  and  friendly.  "It's  nice  to  have  you 
back,"  she  said.  "Bronx  or  Martini?" 

"Then  who  was  in  the  hall?"  I  asked 
myself. 

After  dinner  I  went  to  my  room  and  began 
to  pack. 

An  hour  later  Augusta  came  to  my  door 
and  looked  in.  She  raised  her  eyebrows 
inquiringly  at  the  room's  disorder. 

"I'm  going  to  New  York,"  I  explained, 
"for — several  months." 

"New  York,"  she  said  softly.  "Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear!"  She  came  and  took  my 
hands  and  brushed  them  against  her  lips. 
"Can  I  help  you  about — anything?"  she 
wanted  to  know.  "Anything?"  ?he  repeated 
earnestly 

"I  think  not,"  I  answered. 

Augusta  helped  me  finish  my  packing  in 
silence. 

When  I  left  that  night  she  gave  me  a 
fiercely  gentle  shake. 

"Now  listen,  Boy,"  she  said:  "There 
228 


Augusta's  Bridge 

isn't  anything  in  this  wide  world  I  wouldn't 
do  or  say  or  be  if  it  would  help  you.  Will 
you  remember  that — always?" 

"Always,"  I  said.  "I've  known  it  always, 
for  that  matter."  I  kissed  her  and  picked  up 
my  bags  and  left  her  standing  there  with  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  together. 


ii 

I  had  learned  that  the  pines  and  the  water 
and  the  wind  could  whisper,  over  and  over, 
a  single  phrase,  and  so  I  mistrusted  them. 
Surely  crowds  and  noise  and  lights  were 
better.  I  would  try  the  swift,  stupendous, 
passionate  futility  which  is  New  York.  Noth- 
ing could  seem  as  real  where  the  end  is 
dinners  and  dollars.  Surely  a  girl's  trembling 
clinging  body,  the  breath  from  begging  lips, 
two  humans  welded  into  one  for  just  a  blind- 
ing flash,  could  not  wipe  out  a  world  where 
skyscrapers  stood  unbowed. 

New  York!  New  York!  I  craved  it  as 
229 


The  Lucky  Seven 


some  screaming  wretch  might  long  for  anes- 
thesia. 

The  high,  serene  blue  dome  of  the  New 
York  Central  Station  promised  well.  I  stood 
beneath  it  and  my  whirling  thoughts  grew 
calmer.  "Bug!  Worm!"  I  told  myself. 
"You  have  an  ache  inside  you — what  of  it? 
They'll  put  a  lacy  thing  over  her  hair,  and  a 
youth  with  white  flowers  in  his  buttonhole 
will  mumble  some  hocus-pocus  and  lead  her 
away,  and  it  will  be  as  though  she  dies. 
You  have  had  the  faint  promise  and  it  was 
more  than  all  this  world.  He  will  have  ful- 
fillment and  that  will  be  more  than  all  the 
spheres  and  heaven  besides — what  of  it?  A 
few  years  more  and  you'll  be  something  in  a 
wooden  box  to  be  put  out  of  sight  quickly 
lest  you  become  an  offense;  and  then  millions 
of  other  bugs  and  worms,  all  with  little  aches 
inside,  will  scuttle  back  and  forth  beneath 
this  placid  dome  and  know  you  not." 

I  followed  my  red-cap  then,  out  to  the  line 
of  taxis;  and  so  began  the  first  of  those  days 
in  which  I  learned  that  New  York  was  made 
230 


Augusta's  Bridge 

up  of  four  million  human  beings  and — my- 
self. 

The  division  was  as  absolute  as  Time.  I 
might  have  been  a  disembodied  spirit  who  min- 
gled with  them,  striving,  striving  to  share  their 
joys  or  sorrows,  work  or  play,  hopes  or  fears. 

I  stood  it  five  weeks. 

One  night  I  dined,  surrounded  by  the 
ardent  murmur  of  a  hundred  tete-a-tetes,  and 
never  since  the  world  began  has  mortal  man 
been  more  alone. 

At  last  the  musicians  picked  up  their  in- 
struments. I  eyed  them  listlessly.  The 
'cellist  sat  facing  me.  He  had  a  tremendous, 
a  startling  shock  of  coarse  red  hair.  Then, 
as  he  drew  his  bow  across  his  'cello,  I  shriveled 
where  I  sat;  it  was  a  waltz — our  waltz,  Miss 
Mouse  had  called  it — and  it  rose  and  sobbed 
and  died. 

The  big  blue  dome  welcomed  me  next  day, 
eager,  human,  alive — for  I  was  going  back. 
Back  to  where  the  world  was  real  and  wonder- 
ful, because  it  contained  her  voice,  her 
footsteps,  her  laughter. 
231 


The  Lucky  Seven 


I  would  see  her  now  and  then — never 
alone,  of  course — but  when  others  watched  and 
judged  how  faithfully  I  served  convention. 

I  had  been  a  coward  to  run  away  without 
a  single  word.  We  would  have  one  talk. 
I  would  speak  of  that  moment  in  which  I 
had  held  her  in  my  arms.  I  would  refer  to  it 
lightly  as  a  sort  of  foolish  fondness,  in  which 
my  attitude  had  been  almost  paternal. 

I  would  become  the  Gee  Gee  of  old, 
who  listened  to  troubles,  advised,  sometimes 
scolded — so  the  next  few  years  would  pass 
somehow.  I  refused  to  think  of  the  youth 
with  the  white  flowers  in  his  buttonhole. 
Perhaps,  when  the  time  came,  I  could  bear 
it  better  than  now. 

I  left  on  the  Twentieth  Century.  The 
train  seemed  to  bore  forever  through  black 
velvet  shot  with  stars.  Ages  passed,  in  which 
I  snapped  on  the  light  from  time  to  time  to 
find  that  years  of  tossing  and  turning  or 
staring  straight  up  at  the  unwinking  shimmer 
of  the  upper  berth  were  only  fifteen  minutes 
on  the  dial  of  my  watch. 
232 


Augusta's  Bridge 

I  arrived  at  last.  The  motor  did  not  meet 
me,  and  I  thought  this  strange.  Then  I 
remembered  I  had  forgotten  to  wire.  As  I 
entered  the  house  I  heard  voices  in  the  study. 
When  I  reached  the  study  door  I  heard 
Augusta  speaking.  "I  must!  I  must!"  she 
said.  I  opened  the  door  quietly,  fearing 
callers. 

Augusta  was  standing  by  the  desk,  half 
turned  from  me.  She  was  looking  out  at 
what  the  frost  had  left  of  the  garden.  Close 
beside  her,  with  his  arm  about  her  shoulders, 
was  Douglas  Winthrop.  He  was  leaning 
forward,  peering  into  her  face.  "You  are 
the  most  wonderful  woman  on  God's  earth," 
he  said.  I  closed  the  door  softly  and  went 
up  to  my  room. 

For  an  hour  I  sat  there  thinking.  Had  it 
been  any  woman  but  Augusta!  I  doubted 
my  eyes  and  my  ears.  Augusta!  Augusta! 
It  simply  could  not  be.  But  what  if  it  were 
so?  What  if  a  wise,  a  kind,  an  adorable 
God — whom  I  had  come  to  hate — had  con- 
trived to  save  me.  Had  given  me  back  my 
233 


The  Lucky  Seven 


life  to  do  with  as  I  pleased.  .  .  .  Why  then — 
"Miss  Mouse,"  I  whispered,  holding  out  my 
arms.  .  .  .  But  first  it  was  necessary  to  make 
sure.  If  there  was  some  explanation  Augusta 
would  make  it,  of  course.  If  she  avoided  it, 
the  case  was  clear  and  I  could  tell  her — every- 
thing. 

I  went  downstairs  and  found  her  still  in 
the  study,  alone.  She  was  in  my  work  chair, 
one  arm  thrown  across  the  desk,  her  head 
bowed  in  the  other. 

"Augusta,"  I  said. 

She  raised  her  head  and  straightened  up 
slowly.  I  was  distressed  by  her  appearance. 
Her  face  was  thin  and  her  eyes,  though  big 
and  bright,  were  sunken. 

"My  dear,"  I  exclaimed,  "have  you  been 
ill?" 

"A  little,"  she  said.  "Did  you  just  come?" 
I  was  close  to  her  chair  by  now  and  stood  look- 
ing down  at  her.  In  some  indescribable  way 
she  contrived  to  make  a  kiss  seem  awkward. 

She  did  not  avoid  it  by  the  slightest  with- 
drawing, and  yet  it  became  easier  for  me  to 


Augusta's  Bridge 

seat  myself  on  the  desk  without  even  touch- 
ing her  hand. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know?"  I  asked. 
"You've  been  ill— I  can  see  it.  Why  didn't 
you  let  me  know  in  one  of  your  letters?  I'd 
have  come  home  at  once."  She  replied  that 
she  had  not  been  really  ill,  and  that  she  did 
not  wish  to  worry  me.  As  we  talked  on  it 
became  clear  that  she  was  not  herself.  In 
her  voice,  her  gestures,  her  eyes,  was  a  sort 
of  timidity.  It  was  as  though  she  expected 
a  reproach  at  any  moment.  She  did  not 
mention  Douglas  Winthrop,  although  I  made 
a  point  of  giving  her  an  opportunity  to  tell 
me  who  her  caller  had  been.  I  said  that  I 
had  heard  voices  when  I  had  first  come  in 
and  had  then  gone  to  my  room. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  was  here  in  the  study 
most  of  the  afternoon.  Are  you  going  to 
dress  before  or  after  dinner?" 

"Dress!"  I  exclaimed.  "Why  should  I 
dress?  Are  you  expecting  someone?" 

"The  party,"  she  said,  "Catherine's  coming- 
out  party.    Aren't  you  going?" 
235 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"I've  seen  no  one  except  you,"  I  said. 
"  How  should  I  know  about  a  party?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes  to  her  hands,  folded 
in  her  lap.  "I  thought  perhaps  she'd  written 
you;  I  thought  perhaps  that  was  why  you 
came  home." 

"No,"  I  said  gravely,  "she  hasn't  written 
me." 

"Well,  you  must  go,"  said  Augusta. 

"You  don't  sound  very  keen  about  it," 
I  said.  "I  don't  think  you're  up  to  it  just 
now.  Perhaps  we'd  better  stay  home  this 
evening." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going,"  said  she.  "Mrs. 
Leeds  will  understand.  But  you  must.  It 
would  break  Catherine's  heart  if  you  didn't. 
I'll  put  your  studs  in  while  you're  shaving." 

We  settled  it  that  way.  I  was  to  tell  Mrs. 
Leeds  that  Augusta  did  not  feel  equal  to  the 
party. 

"Don't  come  home  early  on  my  account," 
said  Augusta  when  I  left.  "I'm  going  straight 
to  bed." 

"Well,  good  night,"  I  said,  and  hesitated; 
236 


Augusta's  Bridge 

but  Augusta  had  turned  back  and  already 
had  one  foot  on  the  stairs. 

I  crossed  the  lawn  to  the  gap  in  the  hedge. 
The  stars  were  out  in  bright  millions,  and  I 
raised  my  eyes  to  them.  "She  loves  him," 
I J  thought,  but  not  exultantly.  Somehow 
this  undreamed-of  situation,  which  promised 
to  solve  my  problem  to  the  last  fraction, 
brought  crowding  memories  of  Augusta,  grave- 
eyed  Augusta,  and  the  quiet  and  friendly 
years. 

They  were  swept  away  later  that  evening 
under  those  same  bright  stars.  I  had  danced 
twice  with  a  creature  more  lovely  than  mere 
humans  have  a  right  to  be.  She  had  given  me 
one  flaming  look,  and  then  not  the  smallest 
sign.  I  might  have  been  one  of  fifty  others 
who  pressed  about  her.  Perhaps  this  was 
responsible  for  the  madness  which  seized  me 
later.  For  when  I  had  asked  myself  ten 
thousand  times  "Has  she  forgotten?"  to  be 
answered  by  a  perfunctory  smile  when  her 
eyes  chanced  to  meet  mine,  I  became  hideously 
certain  that  some  high  destiny,  in  which  I 
237 


The  Lucky  Seven 


could  not  enter,  would  claim  her,  and  that 
her  instinct  told  her  so.  She  seemed  to  have 
become  the  impossible  and  I  the  hopeless 
fool. 

Then  I  would  have  left,  and  so  I  waved 
good  night  to  her  from  the  doorway  as  she 
floated  past.  In  an  instant  she  was  beside 
me. 

"Don't  go,  Gee  Gee,"  she  said.  "Please, 
oh  please!  Wait  till  the  others  go." 

I  nodded  with  a  beating  heart,  and  she 
returned  to  her  partner. 

Later,  when  only  a  happy  mother,  a  proud 
though  yawning  Jummy  and  myself  were  left 
to  worship,  she  darted  from  the  room  and 
came  back  in  folds  of  downy  white. 

"Why,  where  are  you  going?"  faltered  Mrs. 
Leeds. 

"Out  on  the  terrace,"  announced  Miss 
Mouse.  "It's  been  so  wonderful,  Mumsy,  I 
must  talk  it  over  all  alone  with  Gee  Gee." 

"Go  to  it,"  said  Jummy.  "I'm  going  up 
and  talk  it  over  with  the  old  oaken  bed- 
stead." 

238 


Augusta's  Bridge 

"Perhaps  you  can  quiet  her  down,"  as- 
sented Mrs.  Leeds.  "Make  her  come  in  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

"In  ten  minutes,"  I  promised. 

I  closed  the  French  window  behind  us 
and  felt  my  hands  shaking  on  the  brass  catch 
as  I  tried  to  fasten  it. 

"Turn  it  to  the  left,"  directed  Miss  Mouse 
softly.  Then  warm,  slim  fingers  closed  over 
mine  as  they  fumbled  with  the  catch.  "Why 
did  you  go  away  like  that  after — after — " 

"That's  why  I  went  away,"  I  managed  to 
breathe. 

"But,  Gee  Gee — dear,"  came  a  whisper, 
"I  almost  died — "  I  heard  the  whisper 
break  and  become  a  sigh. 

What  happened  then  only  the  stars  know, 
and  they  grew  dim  in  a  scented  fire  that  came 
and  destroyed  the  world,  leaving  only  warm 
lips  that  clung,  breath  like  flowers  that 
mingled  with  mine,  and  slim  arms  twined 
about  me. 

Later  I  stumbled  through  the  gap  in  the 
hedge  like  a  drunkard.  I  could  not  feel  the 
239 


The  Lucky  Seven 


ground  under  my  feet,  nor  the  steps  of  the 
porch,  nor  the  stairs,  which  I  climbed  some- 
how, and  so  found  myself  in  my  room. 

There  was  a  white  square  on  my  dresser 
when  I  switched  on  the  light.  It  did  not 
belong  there  and  I  stared  dazedly  at  it  until 
it  grew  into  a  letter  addressed  to  me.  I 
opened  it  wondering,  and  read: 

Dear:  I  think  it  best  that  I  should  go.  You 
will  find  a  letter  in  the  top  right-hand  drawer  of 
your  desk  that  will  help  you  to  do  what  you  must 
do  at  once.  Please  have  Douglas  Winthrop  do 
this  for  you — he  understands.  Do  not  destroy 
the  letter  you  will  find;  I  am  told  it  is  necessary 
for  evidence.  AUGUSTA. 

I  read  this  many  times  before  I  moved 
from  where  I  stood.  Then  I  went  to  Augusta's 
room,  knocked,  waited,  knocked  again  and 
entered.  The  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 
The  room  was  in  order  to  the  smallest  detail. 
A  pair  of  pink  bedroom  slippers  were  on  the 
floor  at  the  head  of  the  bed  in  perfect  align- 
ment. They  seemed  waiting  to  be  slipped  on. 
240 


Augusta9 s  Bridge 

Then  I  saw  that  the  dressing  table  was  bare 
of  toilet  articles. 

I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  The 
room  was  calm,  soothing,  friendly,  like  Au- 
gusta. A  small  gold  clock  ticked  steadily 
from  the  white  mantel.  It  had  been  a  wedding 
present.  It  had  ticked  just  there  for  seven 
years. 

At  last  I  stole  downstairs  and  opened  the 
top  right-hand  drawer  of  my  desk.  The 
letter  I  found  there  began  boldly:  "My 
own  Augusta,"  and  continued  to  breathe 
possession  to  its  end.  It  was  unsigned.  I 
took  it  back  to  my  room  and  read  the  first 
letter  again.  "What  you  must  do  at  once" 
leaped  out  at  me.  She  is  wild  to  be  free,  I 
thought.  Not  until  the  next  day  did  it 
occur  to  me  that  in  asking  me  to  consult 
Douglas  Winthrop  she  had  shown,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  a  lack  of  finer  perception. 

I  spent  the  next  few  days  in  the  house. 

Work   was  out  of  the   question.     I  had   a 

curious  feeling  that  Augusta  was  somewhere 

about.     I  found  myself  prowling  from  room 

241 


The  Lucky  Seven 


to  room,  to  be  struck  by  the  emptiness  of 
each  in  turn. 

This  emptiness  was  inconceivable.  My 
mind  was  not  equal  to  concluding  that  never, 
never,  never  would  Augusta  enter  this  house 
again.  Houses  are  molded  close  about  the 
spirits  of  those  they  shelter.  This  house 
now  was  hollow,  stripped  of  its  soul.  It 
was  a  house  no  longer.  It  was  a  shell  con- 
taining memories.  I  determined  to  sell  it 
later. 

I  did  not  see  Miss  Mouse.  A  dozen  steps 
were  all  that  separated  us,  and  yet  I  did  not 
take  them.  She  was  the  breathless,  ecstatic 
future.  I  was  steeped  in  recollections  of  the 
past.  So  for  a  week  I  felt  a  disinclination  to 
have  my  breedings  torn  away  by  the  over- 
whelming sight  of  eyes  grown  dark  with 
longing,  and  parted,  eager  lips. 

I  shook  myself  free  from  introspection  one 
morning  and  went  to  Douglas  Winthrop. 
I  told  him  that  Augusta  had  left  me,  wished 
to  have  her  freedom,  and  had  asked  to  have 
me  put  the  matter  in  his  hands. 
242 


Augusta' s  Bridge 

"Will   you   undertake   it?"   I   wound   up. 

"If  you  wish  it,"  he  replied. 

"That  surprises  me,"  I  told  him.  "I  had 
felt  that  you  would  refuse — under  the  cir- 
cumstances." 

"What  circumstances?"  he  asked. 

While  I  had  never  cared  particularly  for 
Douglas  Winthrop,  I  had  thought  him  above 
a  commonplace  evasion  of  this  kind.  Did 
the  man  think  I  had  come  to  accuse  him? 

"Why,"  I  said  coldly,  "I  thought  you  were 
fond  of  Augusta,  and  might  have  some  feeling 
about  appearing  in  this  case." 

"It  is  because  I  am — fond  of  her,"  he  said, 
and  I  saw  the  color  rising  in  his  face,  "that 
I  have  consented  to  this  piece  of — "  He 
broke  off,  whirled  his  desk  chair  about  and 
got  to  his  feet.  "You  want  me  to  file  papers 
in  an  action  for  divorce  against  your  wife," 
he  said  abruptly.  "Is  that  correct?" 

I  nodded. 

"Immediately?"  he  asked. 

"Suppose  I  leave  that  to  you,"  I  said. 

"Why  to  me?"  he  shot  out. 
243 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Aren't  you  the  attorney  in  this  case?" 
I  asked. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  and  regarded  me  for  a 
moment  in  silence. 

"I  should  judge  by  this  letter,"  I  said, 
"that  my  wife  would  like  to  have  it  over 
as  quickly  as  possible."  I  took  Augusta's* 
letter  from  my  pocket  and  handed  it  to 
him. 

He  read  it,  handed  it  back  and  asked: 
"Have  you  the  letter  she  refers  to?" 

I  produced  the  letter  he  asked  for.  He 
glanced  through  it  and  laid  it  on  the  desk. 

"I  shall  offer  this  in  evidence,"  he  said 
casually  as  he  did  so.  "Can  I  do  anything 
else  for  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  rising,  "you  can  give  me 
Augusta's  address." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said; 
"I've  given  my  word  not  to  do  so." 

I  went  away,  wondering  why  Augusta  did 

not  wish  to  see  me.     How  swiftly  the  gap 

between  us  was  growing  wider!    Those  seven 

years  seemed  to  have  been  blotted  out  in  as 

244 


Augusta's  Bridge 

many  days.  I  actually  found  it  difficult  to 
remember  just  how  Augusta  looked.  When 
I  returned  home  I  hunted  the  house  over  for 
a  photograph  of  her.  I  found  one  at  last  and 
studied  it  painstakingly  for  some  time.  But 
even  that  failed  to  bring  her  back.  Where 
had  she  gone — this  woman  creature  who  had 
been  so  inexpressibly  a  part  of  me?  Our  two 
natures  had  flowed  together,  had  formed  a 
quiet  river,  and  had  moved  steadily  on  through 
deeps  and  over  shallows  by  day,  by  night, 
for  seven  years.  What  possible  magic  could 
divide  its  waters,  could  separate  them  again 
into  their  two  component  parts?  And  yet  the 
thing  had  happened  in  the  practical,  every- 
day sort  of  way  with  which  one  ate  break- 
fast, or  shaved,  or  paid  the  butcher.  Au- 
gusta had  walked  out  of  the  house  and  left 
a  letter. 

Next  day  I  called  at  the  Leeds'  and  saw 
Miss  Mouse.  The  room  was  filled  with  slim 
young  couples  who  whirled  and  glided.  I 
managed  to  obtain  a  moment  or  so  with  her, 
in  a  corner. 

245 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"I  have  something  important  to  tell  you,'* 
I  said.  "Suppose  we  go  skating  to-morrow 
afternoon." 

Miss  Mouse  became  absorbed  in  a  line  of 
buttons  on  her  skirt.  "I  have  an  engagement 
to-morrow,"  she  informed  me. 

I  watched  the  curve  of  her  drooping  lashes 
on  her  cheek,  my  pulses  beginning  to  stir. 
"Can't  you  break  it?"  I  asked. 

Miss  Mouse  bent  lower  as  her  fingers 
followed  down  the  line  of  buttons.  "Rich 
man,  poor  man — "  she  began. 

"Can't  you  break  it?"  I  repeated. 

"Where  have  you  been  for  a  week?"  she 
wanted  to  know. 

"Busy,"  I  said. 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "I'll  be  busy  to- 
morrow," she  stated  with  a  tiny  flame  in  her 
eyes. 

Her  left  hand  was  on  the  couch  between 
us.  I  moved  my  right  hand  over  an  inch  and 
curled  my  little  finger  over  hers. 

"I  love  you,  Miss  Mouse,"  I  said  softly. 

Her  finger  locked  itself  convulsively  about 
246 


Augusta's  Bridge 

mine.  "What  time  do  you  want  to  go  skat- 
ing?" she  asked. 

Sitting  on  a  snow-covered  log  next  day, 
at  the  edge  of  the  frozen  mill  race,  I  told 
Miss  Mouse  about  Augusta.  When  I  had 
finished  I  found  her  looking  at  me  wide-eyed. 

"She's  gone !"  she  gasped.     "For  good?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

I  was  amazed  to  have  Miss  Mouse  burst 
straightway  into  tears.  I  put  my  arm  about 
her. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  I  asked. 

"Poor  Aunt  Augusta,"  sobbed  Miss  Mouse. 
"I  can't  bear  it,  Gee  Gee;  I  can't,  I  can't." 

"But  she  wanted  to  go,"  I  said;  "she  cares 
for  someone  else." 

Miss  Mouse  drew  away  from  me.  "I 
don't  believe  it,  Gee  Gee,"  she  said  chok- 
ingly. "I'm  a  wicked  girl.  Please  take  me 
home." 

I  tried  to  reason  with  her.    I  was  tempted 

to  tell  her  what  I  had  seen  in  the  study  that 

day.    I  would  tell  her  later,  I  thought.    But 

now  I  could  not  convince  her,  and  was  forced 

247 


The  Lucky  Seven 


to  take  her  home  as  she  demanded.  At  the 
door  she  sent  me  away. 

"Don't  come  in,  please,  Gee  Gee,"  she 
said.  "I'm  going  up  to  my  room  and  cry. 
That's  all  I  can  do,  I  guess — is  cry.  I  think 
that  I'm  the  worst  girl  in  the  world." 

"Why,  you've  done  nothing,"  I  said  sooth- 
ingly. 

"I  have,  I  have,"  she  said,  and  disappeared 
in  the  house. 

When  the  time  came  at  last  I  was  dazed 
at  the  casual  way  in  which  the  law  handed 
back  to  Augusta  and  me  our  separate  lives. 
I  simply  went  to  the  courthouse,  where  I 
sat,  for  moments  only,  in  a  small,  high-ceil- 
inged  room,  while  Douglas  Winthrop  talked  in- 
formally to  a  white-haired  man  with  tired  eyes. 

I  watched  some  sparrows  hopping  about 
just  outside  the  window  on  the  red  tin  roof. 
The  white-haired  man  was  also  watching 
the  sparrows.  He  seemed  so  absorbed  by 
them  that  I  wondered  if  he  was  listening  to 
Douglas.  At  last  he  spoke. 
248 


Augusta's  Bridge 

"There  are  no  children  by  this  marriage?" 
he  asked. 

"None,  your  Honor,"  said  Douglas. 

The  white-haired  man's  tired  eyes  left 
the  sparrows  and  turned  to  me  for  an  instant. 
I  was  surprised  at  the  kind,  almost  friendly 
light  in  their  depths. 

"The  decree  is  granted,"  he  said. 

Later  I  waited  in  Douglas  Winthrop's 
office.  Presently  he  came  in  with  two  docu- 
ments. 

"Here,"  he  said,  handing  me  one  of  them, 
"is  a  bridge." 

I  took  the  folded  document  and  stared 
dully  at  the  typewritten  words:  "Final 
decree  of  divorce.  Certified  copy." 

"Bridge?"  I  questioned.  Then  suddenly 
I  got  his  meaning.  "Yes,"  I  said,  looking  at 
him  steadily.  "One  for  each  of  us." 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "Here  is  Augusta's 
copy." 

It  irritated  me  that  he  should  avoid  my  im- 
plication, but  I  was  determined  not  to  show  it. 

"I  wish  you  every  happiness,"  I  said. 
249 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Happiness?"  he  questioned. 

"Look  here,"  I  said:  "Did  you  or  did  you 
not  write  that  letter?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  wrote  it— for  evidence." 

"For  evidence!"  I  exclaimed.  "Do  you  or 
do  you  not  care  for  Augusta?" 

He  eyed  me  somberly  for  a  moment  w^th- 
out  replying.  Then: 

"Yes,  I  care  for  her,"  he  said  quietly. 

"And  she  cares  for  you?"  I  insisted. 

"Ah,  if  she  did!"  he  said  with  sudden 
feeling. 

"She  doesn't  care  for  you?"  I  said,  dum- 
founded.  "She  cares  for  someone  else?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "she  cares  for  some- 
one else."  He  went  to  his  desk  and  opened 
a  drawer.  "Here,"  he  said,  "this  is  for  you." 
He  handed  me  a  letter,  then  went  to  the 
window  and  stared  out  with  his  back  to  me. 

This  is  what  I  read  in  Augusta's  hand- 
writing: 

I  saw  you  that  day  on  the  porch.    I  talked  to 
Catherine   while  you   were  in  New  York,   and 
250 


Augusta's  Bridge 


though  she  tried  to  hide  it  from  me,  of  course  she 
couldn't — and  I  knew.  Besides,  I've  seen  it  in 
your  eyes  when  you  looked  at  her — oh,  Boy,  I 
know  your  eyes  so  well !  Thank  Douglas  Winthrop, 
he  has  been  so  fine — finer  than  you  know!  Some 
day  please  tell  the  Chief  of  Scouts  about  his  Aunt 
Augusta.  And  now,  my  dear,  my  dear,  good-by. 

As  I  finished  reading  I  could  no  longer  see; 
and  yet  those  last  few  words,  scrawled  though 
they  were  and  blurred,  can  never  fade,  can 
never  fade  so  long  as  I  shall  live. 


VI 
A  CAKE  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  ROUND 


VI 

A  CAKE  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH  ROUND 


THE  houses  of  Dugan  and  Spiegel  are 
united.  The  population  of  Ward  A 
assisted  at  the  ceremony  as  a  unit. 5  In  strict 
justice,  however,  Mrs.  Delancy  Challons- 
worth  must  be  given  some  credit  for  the 
match. 

Mrs.  Challonsworth  is  an  uplifter.  She 
uplifts,  as  her  husband  puts  it,  to  beat  the 
band.  She  has  a  great  deal  of  money,  a  great 
deal  of  time,  and  very  little — well,  at  any 
rate,  she  is  an  uplifter.  She  is  a  member  of 
committees.  She  discusses  and  moves  and 
seconds.  She  is  appointed  and  appoints. 
She  investigates  and  reports.  It  is  all  very 
impressive. 

Her  gowns  are  cut  to  hang  effectively 
during  the  reading  of  papers,  or  while  in- 
255 


The  Lucky  Seven 


troducing  a  long-haired  young  man  with  a 
black  ribbon  attached  to  his  eyeglasses,  who 
addresses  the  meeting. 

Such  a  young  man  was  addressing  a  meeting 
presided  over  by  Mrs.  Challonsworth  one 
Thursday  afternoon.  The  young  man  was 
proving  that  his  own  sex,  allowed  by  some 
deplorable  mischance  one  vital  function, 
was  otherwise  of  no  moment  in  the  general 
scheme  of  things. 

Mrs.  Challonsworth  had  heard  all  this 
before.  It  had  been  rather  overdone  of 
late.  She  felt  that  Mr.  Duckworth  had  been 
a  mistake.  Perhaps  that  girl  on  alcohol 
would  have  been  better.  As  the  thought 
came  to  her  she  looked  vaguely  about  the 
room  and  encountered  the  burning  glance 
of  the  alcohol  girl.  Mrs.  Challonsworth  rose 
quietly  and  crossed  the  room,  with  the 
swaying  step  so  well  adapted  to  meetings. 

"Will  you  be  free  next  Friday,  my  dear?" 
she  murmured. 

"Oh,  yes,"  breathed  the  alcohol  girl. 

"Then  may  we  expect  you  here  at  four 
256 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

o'clock?  It's  fifty  dollars  and  Alcohol,  isn't 
it?" 

"It's  influence  on  the  mind  of  the  child," 
corrected  the  alcohol  girl.  "Unwarned  he 
toddles  to  a  drunken  father's  knee  to  receive 
a  caress  reeking  of  the  grogshop.  As  he 
trips  with  his  little  companions  to  and  from 
school  the  Demon  is  at  his  elbow  on  every 
corner  he  passes.  He  grows  innocently 
familiar  with  the  interior  of  saloons  and  pool- 
rooms. Unconsciously  he  assumes  that  rum 
is  requisite  to  human  happiness.  He  must  be 
warned!  He  must  be  taught!  He  must 
be — "  The  alcohol  girl's  voice  was  rising. 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Challonsworth  soothingly.  "On  Friday, 
then." 

Friday  and  the  alcohol  girl  arrived.  As  a 
result  it  was  moved  and  seconded  that  some- 
thing must  be  done.  A  committee  was  ap- 
pointed; it  investigated  and  reported.  It 
found  that  if  a  modest  sum — for  necessary 
expenses — was  delivered  to  Councilman 
Feeney  the  alcohol  girl  herself  might  stand 
257 


The  Lucky  Seven 


in  the  eighth-grade  schoolroom  of  Ward  A 
and  speak  to  the  children  for  thirty  minutes. 

The  modest  sum  was  raised.  The  alcohol 
girl  quelled  a  multitude  of  scufflings  and 
squeakings  with  one  burning  glance.  The 
eighth  grade  grew  breathless  at  the  dreadful 
figure  of  the  Demon  Rum.  The  alcohol  girl 
closed  with  a  withering  blast  at  those  who 
trafficked  in  the  horror,  and  Lena  Spiegel 
quivered  to  the  roots  of  her  two  blond  pig- 
tails. 

Lena  had  enjoyed  a  certain  distinction  in 
Ward  A.  It  was  known  that  at  any  hour  of 
the  day  she  could  slip  through  the  side 
entrance  of  Spiegel's  Place  and  come  forth 
bearing  the  wondrous  fruits  of  the  free-lunch 
counter.  To  be  in  her  favor  meant  a  blissful 
access  to  sliced  dill  pickles,  sauerkraut,  blut- 
tourstj  pretzels,  headcheese,  rye  bread  and, 
above  all,  the  succulent  pig's  foot.  Knowing 
this,  the  eighth  grade  had  accorded  her  an 
unusual  deference,  an  awed  and  hungry 
respect. 

Public  approval  is  a  dangerous  thing.  It 
258 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

has  broken  many  strong  men.  Lena  had  not 
been  proof  against  it.  She  had  become  dis- 
dainful in  her  manner.  She  had  grown  con- 
temptuous of  others;  and  there  smoldered  a 
dull  resentment  against  her. 

Now,  without  warning,  it  flamed  on  every 
side.  As  the  alcohol  girl  left  the  platform 
Lena  was  conscious  of  a  ring  of  scornful  eyes. 
She  dropped  her  own  to  her  desk  as  a 
terrible  word  came  hissing  [through  a  strained 
quiet. 

"Saloonair!"  It  was  the  suppressed  voice 
of  Aaron  Goldblatt.  Lena's  ears  became 
blush  roses,  nestling  in  a  tangle  of  spun  gold. 

When  forty  pairs  of  stubby  boots  clumped 
from  the  schoolroom  at  three  o'clock  Lena's 
were  not  among  them.  She  pretended  to  be 
straightening  up  her  desk.  She  waited  ten 
minutes  longer,  saw  Tommy  Dugan  receive 
his  daily  whipping,  and  ventured  forth. 

Her  heart  leaped  and  stood  still  as  the  door 
swung  to  behind  her.  Young  wolves  hurled 
themselves  upon  her,  led  by  Aaron  Goldblatt. 

"Saloonair!    Yah;  saloonair!" 
259 


The  Lucky  Seven 


She  attempted  flight,  was  cut  off,  and 
backed  against  the  high  board  fence. 

"Oh,  please!    Please!"  she  begged. 

Tommy  Dugan  kicked  open  the  vestibule 
door. 

"De  big  slob  couldn't  make  me  cry  wid  a 
bat!"  he  told  himself  proudly.  Then  he 
heard  the  yelping  of  the  pack  in  the  yard 
and  halted  on  the  top  step. 

Tommy's  parent,  on  the  male  side,  was  a 
victim  of  the  Demon.  Each  Saturday  he 
spent  the  hours  from  eight  to  twelve  P.  M. 
at  Spiegel's  Place.  Thence  he  covered  a 
zig-zag  trail  to  his  own*  stairway,  where  he 
would  attempt  the  impossible. 

"Divil  and  all  take  the  cursed  shteps!" 
he  would  mutter  at  last.  "They're  that 
threatcherous  they'd  lape  on  a  man  whin 
he's  down.  Maggie!  Maggie!  Have  ye 
no  ears?  It's  hilp  I'm  wantin'." 

For  a  year  now  it  was  not  Mrs.  Dugan  but 

Tommy  who  had  descended  at  this  bellow 

of  distress.    Tommy  felt  that  his  full  manhood 

was   established   wjien   his   father   had   first 

260 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

accepted  "the  loan  av  his  shoulder"  for  the 
perilous  ascent.  His  father's  heavy  hand  was 
an  accolade.  It  conferred  the  order  of 
comrade  on  him. 

Now,  as  Tommy  eyed  the  scene  below  him, 
he  felt  his  gorge  begin  to  rise.  The  cowering 
figure  and  convulsed  face  of  Lena  Spiegel 
did  not  move  him;  it  was  the  word  that  was 
shrieked  at  her  in  twenty  piercing  keys : 

"Saloonair!    Saloonair!" 

Tommy  descended  the  steps,  gathering  mo- 
mentum as  he  came.  This  must  be  stopped.  If 
unchecked  it  might  involve  not  only  the  traf- 
fickers in  the  Demon  but  the  consumers  as  well. 

When  Tommy  burst  into  the  midst  of  things 
a  Galahad  was  not  more  welcome  to  a  maiden 
in  distress.  Lena's  knight  lacked  comeli- 
ness, perhaps.  His  fairy  godmother  had 
sprinkled  his  head  with  a  sort  of  brick  dust. 
She  had  even  splashed  it  in  the  form  of 
freckles  over  his  countenance;  but  his  figure, 
though  small,  was  as  compact  as  a  watch. 
He  plowed  through  the  followers  of  Aaron 
and  faced  the  leader. 

261 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"I'm  gonna  knock  yer  block  off!"  he  in- 
formed him,  and  followed  words  with  deeds. 

The  action  was  short.  Aaron  went  down 
with  a  streaming  nose  and  one  despairing 
"Oi,oi!" 

Tommy  turned  to  the  balance  of  the  pack. 

"Any  of  youse  guys  wanna  scrap?"  he  in- 
quired, blowing  on  his  knuckles. 

It  was  apparent  that  no  one  did. 

"All  right,"  said  Tommy,  his  case  estab- 
lished. "Now  cut  dis  out!  You  got  me?" 

They  stood  silent  and  uneasy  before  him 
for  a  moment,  then  drifted  off  in  groups  of 
twos  and  threes.  Tommy  spat  disdainfully 
and  swaggered  out  of  the  yard.  At  his  heels 
went  Lena  Spiegel.  At  the  end  of  the  block 
he  turned  on  her  fiercely. 

"What  are  ye  snifflin*  at?"  he  demanded. 

"Nu-nu-nothing,"  said  Lena. 

"Well,  dry  up!"  he  ordered.  "You  gimme 
a  pain." 

They  traveled  another  block  in  silence, 
Lena  stifling  her  woe,  a  respectful  two  feet 
in  the  rear.  As  they  passed  Mulhauser's 
262 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

Bakery,  Tommy  came  to  an  abrupt  halt. 
So  did  Lena.  She  waited  a  moment,  but 
Tommy  did  not  stir.  Something  in  the 
bakery  window  had  his  rapt  attention.  She 
took  the  liberty  of  peering  round  his  shoulder. 

"O-o-oh!"  she  said,  her  troubles  for  a 
moment  forgotten. 

It  was  a  German  wedding  cake,  huge  be- 
yond belief  and  wonderful  to  see.  On  its 
sides  clung  a  vine  of  sugar  roses,  in  which 
sugar  birds  teetered  as  though  about  to  take 
wing.  On  its  top  a  Maypole  dance  was  in 
full  swing.  The  sugar  lads  and  lasses,  with 
streamers  in  their  hands,  tripped  it  lightly  on  a 
glistening  milk-white  field. 

They  gazed  at  the  marvel  in  silence.  At 
last  he  condescended  to  address  her. 

"What  is  ut,  do  ye  think  now?"  he  asked. 
His  lapse  into  the  language  of  his  forebears 
proved  him  to  be  deeply  moved. 

"A  cake,"  said  Lena;  "a  wedding  cake." 

"A  cake!"  scoffed  Tommy.  "To  eat? 
Gwan;  you're  nutty!" 

"Sure!"  said  Lena,  brightening  at  his 
263 


The  Lucky  Seven 


ignorance.  "At  weddings  they  always  have 
them.  At  my  Aunt  Katrina's  I  ate  one  like 
that." 

Tommy  studied  the  cake's  dimensions  care- 
fully and  estimated  his  own  capacity. 

"You're  a  liar !"  he  said  finally.  "I  couldn't 
eat  one  like  that  myself." 

Lena  allowed  a  giggle  to  escape  her. 

"I  don't  mean  all,"  she  explained.  "There 
was  lots  an*  lots  of  people.  I  only  ate  a 
piece." 

"Huh!"  said  Tommy.  "Wha'd'  it  taste 
like?" 

"Um-m-m!"  said  Lena  with  unction;  and, 
seeing  that  he  was  impressed,  she  added: 
"I'll  have  one  just  like  it  when  I  get  married." 

Tommy  regarded  her  with  almost  respect. 

"Th'  hell  you  will!"  he  said.  "Who  you 
gonna  marry?" 

"Oh — somebody,"  she  evaded  with  a  toss 
of  her  head. 

Tommy's  eyes  traveled  from  the  giant  cake 
to  Lena  and  back  again  to  the  cake.  He 
made  a  swift  decision. 

264 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

"I'm  gonna  marry  you  myself,"  he  stated. 

"Are  you?"  said  Lena  joyfully,  and  slid 
her  hand  in  his.  "When?" 

Tommy  tore  his  hand  away  and  rubbed  his 
palm  on  his  breeches. 

"When  I  get  ready,"  he  told  her  with  a 
withering  look.  "Come  on;  let's  be  on  OUT 
way." 

From  then  on  Tommy  lived  in  a  land  of 
plenty.  Should  internal  pangs  assail  him  he 
hied  himself  to  his  lady's  bower  for  comfort 
and  solace.  This  was  secured  with  little 
effort,  after  one  painful  experience. 

Mrs.  Spiegel  had  journeyed  several  years 
before  to  the  place  where  all  good  hausfrauen 
go.  Spiegel  lived  with  his  daughter,  just 
above  his  place  of  business.  A  stairway  led 
from  the  saloon's  interior  to  their  apartment. 

It  was  Tommy's  custom  to  yodel  beneath 
the  front  window  and,  at  a  tapping  on  the 
glass,  to  await  her  at  the  entrance  nearest 
the  free-lunch  counter. 

One  day  there  was  no  tapping  on  the 
window.  Lena  was  at  the  grocery  store. 
265 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Tommy,  grown  confident  from  past  successes, 
slipped  through  the  side  entrance  and  dipped 
a  bold  hand  into  the  pretzel  bowl.  He  was 
reaching  with  the  other  toward  a  platter  of 
smoked  herring  when  calamity  overtook  him. 

Tommy  left  Spiegel's  Place  abruptly.  His 
feet  failed  to  touch  the  floor  while  so  doing. 
He  all  but  knocked  over  Lena,  who,  with  her 
arms  full  of  packages,  had  just  arrived  at  the 
side  entrance. 

"Loafer!"  shouted  Spiegel. 

Tommy  thought  of  nothing  to  say  in  reply. 
Lena,  however,  came  shrilly  to  his  rescue  with 
a  stream  of  German.  The  red  went  slowly 
out  of  Spiegel's  face. 

"Excoos!"  he  said  finally.  "De  blaymates 
of  my  Lena  vass  alvays  velgome." 


ii 

So  Tommy  was  well  received  at  Spiegel's 

Place  for  the  three  years  that  followed.    Then 

there  was  a  change.     It  dated  from  the  day 

when  Lena  dropped  her  skirts  to  her  ankles 

266 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

and  piled  the  two  pigtails,  which  by  now  had 
become  one,  on  top  of  her  head. 

She  had  spent  a  throbbing  hour  before  her 
mirror.  At  last,  when  the  saloon  was  empty  of 
customers,  she  came  downstairs  and  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Look,  father!"  she  challenged. 

Spiegel  glanced  up  from  a  pink  sporting 
extra. 

"Veil?"  he  said.  Then  he  stared.  Lena's 
new  dress  was  blue.  It  matched  her  eyes. 
The  thrill  of  it  had  gone  to  her  cheeks.  "So !" 
said  Spiegel  at  last. 

Tommy  Dugan  stuck  his  head  in  the  door- 
way. 

"Where  is  Len — "  he  began,  and  stopped 
abruptly  as  his  eyes  marked  his  lady.  They 
lit  with  approval.  "Gee,  kid !"  he  said.  "You 
look  like  a  circus  horse.  I  got  eight  bits. 
Let's  beat  it  to  de  ball  game." 

Spiegel    followed    to    the    doorway    and 

watched  them  until  they  turned  the  corner. 

He   returned   to   his   stool   behind   the   bar, 

shaking  his  head.     That  night  he  closed  up 

267 


The  Lucky  Seven 


early  and  climbed  the  stairs  with  a  determined 
tread. 

"Lena,"  he  called,  "I  must  shpeak  mit  you." 

"I'm  undressed  already,  father,"  he  heard. 

"Veil,  dress  again,"  he  told  her.  "I'll 
vait  in  de  barlor." 

She  found  him  bolt  upright  in  a  morris 
chair,  each  hand  clutching  a  shiny  arm. 

"Dot  Doogan  poy  bizness  vill  haf  to 
shtop!"  he  began  abruptly.  Lena  paled  and 
faced  him. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Pecause  he  iss  a  no-goot,"  said  Spiegel. 
"Pecause  he  hass  nefer  done  a  day's  vork  in 
his  life.  Alvays  he  vill  be  a  leedle  loafer. 
He  iss  de  vorst  poy  in  de  vard  alreaty. 
Alvays  he  iss  shcrapping  mit  somebody. 
Lasd  veeg  I  hear  he  iss  brize  fighding.  He 
vass — " 

"Who  told  you?"  interrupted  Lena. 

"Vot  diverence  who  told  me — I  know  id. 
He  brize  fighded  in  Brooklyn.      He  god  a 
tamn   goot   ligging.      He   iss   no   goot.      He 
canned  even  fighd — except  mit  bums." 
268 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

"He  can!"  flamed  Lena.  "He's  going  to  be 
a  great  fighter." 

"So!"  said  Spiegel.  "Vere  did  you  find  it 
owd?  From  him?"  Lena  remained  silent. 
"I  toughd  so.  Veil,  here  iss  vot  I  do:  To- 
morrow dell  him  he  cannod  gome  here  no 
more;  but  ven  he  iss  dis  gr-r-read  fighder  vot 
he  shpeaks  abowd — den  he  can  gome." 

Until  late  that  night  Spiegel  lay  and 
listened  to  a  muffled  sobbing.  When  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer  he  went  to  her  door. 

*  Xena — Hebe — 

"Gu-go  awa-a-y!     I  hu-hu-hate  you!" 

"Veil,"  said  Spiegel,  "id  vill  pass."  A  huge 
tear  dropped  from  his  jowl  to  a  curving  ex- 
panse of  nightgown.  "Some  day,  madchen, 
you  vill  dank  me." 

He  believed  what  he  said  at  the  time.  He 
believed  it  for  several  months.  Then  doubts 
assailed  him.  They  came  first  through  Old 
Man  Dugan. 

Tommy's  father  attracted  little  attention 
from  the  citizens  of  Ward  A.  He  secured  a 
casual  notice  on  the  Saturdays  when  he  over- 
269 


The  Lucky  Seven 


estimated  the  amount  of  whisky  he  could 
carry  from  Spiegel's  Place  to  his  own  abode. 
At  such  times  a  policeman  would  call  the 
attention  of  some  passer-by  to  Old  Man 
Dugan's  predicament,  and  aid  was  seldom 
refused.  No  neighbor  could  in  decency  leave 
him  to  the  inevitable  though  reluctant  pinch 
and  fine. 

These  occasions  were  rare,  however.  Old 
Man  Dugan  was  an  expert  calculator.  He 
knew  to  a  nicety  when  he  had  absorbed  the 
ultimate  drop  that  left  him  "soused  to  the 
gyards"  and  still  permitted  a  certain  amount 
of  faith  in  his  legs. 

He  claimed  the  end  of  the  bar  for  Saturday 
nights.  Since  the  footrail  was  in  front  only, 
and  did  not  extend  to  where  he  took  his 
stand,  no  one  disputed  it  with  him.  He  got 
this  favor  and  a  friendly  nod  now  and  then, 
but  little  else. 

Then  a  change  could  be  noticed.  One 
Saturday  night  Spiegel  saw  a  gradual  drift- 
ing of  his  patrons  toward  the  end  of  the  bar — 
and  Old  Man  Dugan.  The  front,  with  its 
270 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

footrail,  became  less  popular.  Late  comers 
were  forced  to  use  it,  but  a  name  was  flying 
from  end  to  end  of  the  mahogany  board. 
The  name  was  Tommy. 

Spiegel  heard  that  name  often  from  then  on 
until  a  day  came  when  he  received  a  shock. 
As  he  picked  up  his  sporting  extra,  "Cyclone 
Tommy  Dugan"  leaped  at  him  from  a  head- 
line. From  that  moment  he  surrendered  to 
dejection. 

One  evening  Councilman  Feeney  who  held 
the  ward  in  the  hollow  of  his  big  red  fist, 
dropped  in.  He  acknowledged  those  present 
with  a  gracious  nod,  and  then: 

"Good  avenin',  Misther  Dugan." 

"Good  avenin',  Councilman."  It  was  evi- 
dent that  equals  spoke. 

"I  see  where  th'  lad  give  the  Donovan  boy 
a  batin'  lasht  Choosday  noight." 

"I've  heerd  it  called  a  dhraw,"  said  Old 
Man  Dugan  modestly. 

"Ye've  heerd  wrong  thin,"  stated  the 
Councilman.  "Our  lad  wint  over  him  like  a 
catimount.  The  Claveland  papers  called  it 
271 


The  Lucky  Seven 


a  dhraw  bekase  Donovan  is  a  local  boy. 
He'd  have  been  out  in  two  more  rounds. 
Councilman  Carmichael  was  tellin'  me.  He 
was  to  Buffalo  an'  shlipped  over  to  see 
ut." 

"The  lad  was  home  to-day,"  offered  Old 
Man  Dugan.  "He's  afther  tellin'  me  that 
Dumb  Dan  Allen  will  manage  him  from  now 
on." 

"Is  ut  so?"  said  the  Councilman,  im- 
pressed. 

He  nodded  down  the  bar.  "Fill  thim  upi" 
he  directed. 

"Here's  at  ye,  Councilman!"  said  Old  Man 
Dugan  courteously. 

"Dthrink  hearty,"  acknowledged  Council- 
man Feeney.  "Wait!  Wait!"  He  raised  his 
glass.  "Boys,  here's  to  Tommy  Dugan — 
the  pride  av  the  war-rd.  May  he  always 
bring  home  th'  bacon!" 

When    he    closed    up    that   night    Spiegel 

found  Lena  curled  up  in  the  morris  chair. 

Her  hair  was  tousled;  her  eyes  were  softly 

brilliant.     She  was  staring  at  nothing,  her 

272 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

chin  cupped  in  her  hand.  He  plodded  about 
the  room,  humming  ostentatiously;  but  she 
ignored  his  presence.  He  looked  at  her 
furtively  from  time  to  time.  At  last  he  stood 
uneasily  before  her. 

"How  vass  your  Aunt  Katrina  dis  evenin'?" 
he  began. 

"Well,"  said  Lena  shortly. 

"Und  de  baby?" 

"Well,"  repeated  Lena. 

"Veil!"  exclaimed  Spiegel.  .  "By  de  dele- 
phone  she  dells  me  he  hass  chicken  box!" 

"Oh,  yes,"  corrected  Lena  hastily.  "I 
mean  I  didn't  get  to  see  hin?." 

A  silence  followed.  Spiegel  coughed  several 
tunes. 

"Lena?" 

"Yes." 

"Vere  iss  dot  Doogan  poy  now  alreaty?" 

Lena  started. 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  asked,  dropping 
her  eyes. 

"You  ain'd  seen  him  zince — zince — dot 
time?"  Spiegel's  voice  was  almost  wistful. 
273 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Lena  failed  to  detect  the  wistful  note. 
The  question  struck  her  as  an  accusation. 

"You  told  me  not  to,"  she  parried. 

"Ya;  dot  iss  so,"  admitted  Spiegel  with  a 
sigh,  and  went  heavily  to  bed. 

He  was  silent  for  days  following.  He 
rarely  spoke.  Even  the  tremendous  excite- 
ment that  descended  suddenly  on  Ward  A 
failed  to  move  him;  it  seemed,  in  fact,  to 
deepen  his  gloom. 

This  excitement  was  caused  by  the  news 
that  Dumb  Dan  Allen  had  spent  a  day 
with  the  manager  of  the  featherweight 
champion.  As  a  result  Cyclone  Tommy 
Dugan  would  meet  the  champion  in  a 
twenty-round  battle.  It  would  take  place 
in  San  Francisco.  The  champion  was  guar- 
anteed twenty  thousand  dollars — win,  lose 
or  draw — and  sixty  per  cent  of  the  mov- 
ing pictures.  Tommy  would  take  the  leav- 
ings. 

But  what  did  that  matter?  Ward  A  be- 
came afflicted  with  a  sort  of  suppressed  frenzy. 
Even  Spiegel  was  affected  at  last.  He  de- 
274 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

cided  to  receive  the  returns  of  the  fight  over 
the  telephone. 


m 

"The  bell  in  a  minute,  kid,"  said  Dumb 
Dan  Allen.  "Now  remember — get  in  close 
an*  stay  there!  Keep  workin'  at  his  guts. 
He'll  try  to  make  you  box.  If  you  fall  for 
it — it's  curtains." 

Cyclone  Tommy  Dugan  nodded  vaguely. 
He  was  no  longer  in  a  world  where  words 
counted.  His  manager  and  the  thousands 
all  about  him  might  be  conscious  of  the  soft 
California  sunshine  and  the  blue  sky  above; 
but  he  was  alone,  with  one  other,  in  a  sphere 
that  was  impregnable  to  skies  and  sunshine 
and  mere  words.  He  looked  across  the  ring 
at  the  featherweight  champion.  He  did  not 
want  advice,  but  the  staccato  clang  of  the 
gong.  The  one  hundred  and  twenty-two 
pounds  of  him  was  weak  with  waiting. 

When  the  bell  rang  at  last  he  did  not 
remember  hearing  it.  He  must  have  come 
275 


The  Lucky  Seven 


out  of  his  corner  with  a  rush,  for  a  left  hook 
shot  round  his  neck,  and  next  they  were 
clinched  on  the  ropes  in  the  champion's 
corner. 

"Back  up,  you  boob !"  whispered  the  cham- 
pion in  his  ear.  "Stick  in  front  of  the  picture 
machine  an'  I'll  letcha  stay  ten  rounds." 

"Th'  hell  you  will,  you  big  stiff!"  hissed 
Tommy;  and  the  first  round,  to  borrow  from 
the  reporters,  was  a  whirlwind  affair. 

The  telegraph  operator  for  the  Associated 
Press  watched  it  dispassionately.  He  was 
sending  the  fight  round  by  round  as  it  broke. 
At  last  he  lowered  his  eyes  from  the  ring, 
and  finished  his  send  with: 

"Dugan  puts  left  to  stomach  at  the  bell." 
He  hesitated  an  instant  and  then  tacked  on: 
"Dugan's  round." 

The  Los  Angeles  Times  man  heard  him 
and  looked  up  from  his  typewriter. 

"I  called  it  even,"  he  said. 

The  Associated  Press  man  yawned. 

"Oh,   I  dunno!     He's  a  right  good   kid. 
How  long  do  you  think  he'll  last?" 
276 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

"Eight  or  ten  rounds,  maybe,"  said  the 
Times  man.  "He  covers  up  pretty  good." 

Fifty-one  minutes  and  forty  seconds  later 
the  Associated  Press  man  found  himself 
standing  in  his  chair.  He  was  joining  his 
voice  to  the  roar  of  twenty  thousand  other 
maniacs  who  surged  about  a  raised  square 
of  roped-off  canvas.  He  sat  down  sheepishly 
at  his  instrument. 

"Well,  wouldn't  that  jar  you?"  he  said 
to  nobody  in  particular.  Then  his  fingers 
pressed  the  key,  and  "Dugan  wins  in  four- 
teenth by  K.  O."  sped  East  along  the  wires. 

Three  thousand  miles  away,  in  Spiegel's 
Place,  there  was  barely  room  to  crook  an 
elbow.  It  was  necessary  to  make  heroic 
efforts  at  the  "Gangway,  gents!"  of  two 
perspiring  waiters.  Spiegel  was  not  behind  his 
dripping  bar  that  day.  He  occupied  a  more 
important  post.  He  stood  at  the  telephone. 

The  telephone  bell  rang  and  the  room 
grew  quiet. 

"Ya;  dis  iss  Spiegul's.  .  .  .  Ya;  I'm  talking 
mid  you — go  aheat!  .  .  .  Rount  twelf.  .  .  . 
277 


The  Lucky  Seven 


Ya !  Dey — meed — in — Doogan's — gorner. 
.  .  .  Ya!  De — champeen — puds — lide — left — 
to — chin.  .  .  .  Ya!  He — vollows — mit — shtiff 
— ride — to — shtummick.  .  .  .  Ya!  Dey — 
clinch  —  bud  —  break  —  ad  —  order  —  of  — 
de — reveree.  Ya!  .  .  .  Vot's  de  matter  mit 
you?  Vere  haf  you  gone?  Vot  iss  id?  ...  A 
flash  hass  gome?  .  .  .  Veil,  led's  haf  id.  ... 
Go  aheat  mit  id!  Doogan — vins — in  vour- 
teenth! — py  knuck-owd!!" 

Spiegel  dropped  the  receiver,  turned  and 
raised  both  hands. 

'Toys!  Poys!"  he  said.  "He's  done  id! 
.  .  .  Leedle  Tommy  Doogan!" 

Hours  later,  when  the  tumult  and  the 
shouting  had  died,  Spiegel  sat  on  his  high 
stool  behind  the  bar  in  a  sort  of  daze.  His 
daughter  Lena  tripped  down  the  stairs  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"It's  time  to  lock  up,  father,"  she  said 
in  a  voice  that  sang  and  bubbled. 

Spiegel  gave  the  girl  a  long  and  troubled 
look. 

278 


A  Cake  in  the  Fourteenth 

"I  know,"  he  said  at  last,  "vot  id  iss  dot 
mages  your  cheeks  so!  Bud -listen — id  iss 
nod  de  same  yed  vot  id  vass.  He  iss  nod 
leedle  Tommy  Doogan,  whose  pands  I  have 
gigged  alreaty  for  shwiping  bretzels.  He  iss 
now  de  Champeen  of  de  Vorld;  und  you — 
veil,  ve  haf  only  a  leedle  saloon.  He  vill 
not  gome  evenings  und  boke  his  red  head 
in  de  door  und  say:  'Vere  iss  Lena?'  He 
vill  nod—" 

His  daughter  put  a  soft  palm  over  his 
mouth. 

"Hush,  foolish  one!"  she  said  in  German 
and  drew  forth  a  telegram  from  a  certain  place. 

The  paper  was  warm  to  Spiegel's  touch. 
He  put  on  his  spectacles  and  read: 

He  was  easy !  Home  Tuesday.  Have  big  cake 
made.  TOMMY. 

"So!"  said  Spiegel,  nodding.  "Veil,  he 
is  a  goot  poy.  Vy  does  he  shpeak  abowd  a 
gake?" 

But  Lena  snatched  the  telegram  from  him 
and  fled. 


VII 

OLD  PASTURES 


vn 

OLD  PASTURES 

f  I  ^HERE  are  certain  recollections  of  my 
J^  childhood  which  are  vivid  as  the  hap- 
penings of  the  hour.  The  events  which  are 
traced  so  indelibly  on  the  earlier  pages  of  my 
life  may  or  may  not  have  been  worthy  of 
record;  yet  there  they  are,  poignant,  un- 
blurred,  defying  Time  to  erase  them. 

Perhaps  the  clearest  of  all  such  italics  of 
the  past  is  the  day  on  which  I  first  saw  har- 
ness racing.  It  was  at  the  Lexington  Trots, 
where  I  sat  in  my  uncle's  box,  speechless, 
wide-eyed,  blissful,  all  one  golden  afternoon. 

On  that  day  the  free-for-all  pace  was  won, 
after  a  bitter  five-heat  battle,  by  a  gray 
gelding  with  a  smoky  mottling  on  his  neck 
and  withers. 

Jogging  back  to  town,  the  talk  was  all  of 
sires  and  dams  and  blood  lines.  I  pulled  my 
283 


The  Lucky  Seven 


uncle  by  the  sleeve,  and  when  I  had  his  at- 
tention at  last  I  asked  him  how  the  winner 
of  the  free-for-all  was  bred. 

"By  Baron  Wilkes,  sonny,"  he  told  me. 
"First  dam  May  Day  by  Pilot,  Jr." 

That  race  was  many  years  ago.  Twenty 
years  later  I  spent  the  sum  of  thirty  dollars, 
not  to  mention  the  expressage,  on  eleven 
hundred  pounds  live  weight  from  Xenia, 
Ohio,  to  Lexington. 

And  now  I  shall  tell  how — I  don't  know 
quite  why — I  did  it;  but  first  let  me  say  that 
Colonel  Jack  Menifee  bore  the  consequences 
of  my  indiscretion  for  four  long  years.  He 
swore  a  little,  but  never  complained. 

Business  had  called  me  to  Dayton.  I 
found  when  I  was  ready  to  return  East  that 
my  best  train  was  the  Pennsylvania  express 
leaving  Cincinnati  at  seven  that  night,  passing 
through  Xenia  at  nine-twenty  and  arriving 
in  New  York  the  following  morning.  To 
catch  it  I  must  take  an  accommodation  to 
Xenia,  where  I  should  wait  thirty  minutes 
284 


Old  Pastures 


for  the  flyer.  I  disliked  the  change  and 
wait,  but  it  was  that  or  nothing,  so  a  jerky, 
kerosene-lighted  day  coach  served  to  get 
me  to  Xenia,  and  after  depositing  me  on 
the  station  platform  creaked  off  into  the 
night. 

It  was  not  cold  for  so  late  in  the  fall,  but 
I  felt  a  sudden  moisture  on  my  face,  and 
looking  toward  an  electric  light  I  saw  that  it 
was  beginning  to  snow — big,  slow,  feathery 
flakes. 

I  made  for  the  station,  pushed  open  the 
waiting-room  door,  and  found  the  place  hot 
to  suffocation  and  filled  with  Italian  section 
hands  who  were  smoking  what  seemed  to 
be  ground-up  rubber  overshoes.  I  backed 
out,  holding  my  breath,  into  the  moist 
night  air,  which  tasted  of  cinders,  coal  smoke 
and  lubricating  oil,  when  I  finally  took  a 
gulp  of  it,  but  for  which  I  was  intensely 
grateful. 

Next  I  looked  about  for  a  sheltered  spot 
and  a  seat  of  some  sort,  for  I  had  had  a  hard 
day.  In  prowling  about  I  passed  a  lighted 
285 


The  Lucky  Seven 


blackboard  on  which  was  chalked  casually 
the  following  bit  of  information: 

9.20  East  40  min.  late. 

I  read  this  once,  I  read  it  again,  and  then 
the  grimy  station  seemed  to  take  on  a  stolid 
but  malignant  personality.  I  felt  that  its 
purpose  was  to  make  such  time  as  must  be 
passed  in  or  near  it  hideous  with  discomfort. 
That  beast  of  a  one-eyed  New  York  express 
was  also  deep  in  a  conspiracy  against  me. 
I  found  my  voice  and  mentioned  the  city  of 
Xenia  and  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  ear- 
nestly and  aloud. 

Somewhat  relieved  in  spirit,  I  took  up  the 
burden  of  my  bag,  proceeded  along  the 
station  front,  and  so  came  at  last  to  an 
empty  mail  truck  which  would  serve  for  a 
seat.  The  truck  was  sheltered  by  the  over- 
hanging roof  of  the  station,  there  was  little 
if  any  wind,  and  I  was  warm  enough  in  my 
heavy  coat.  I  turned  up  my  coat  collar, 
settled  down  on  the  truck,  and  experienced  a 
small  glow  of  satisfaction.  After  all,  this 


Old  Pastures 


wasn't  so  bad,  I  thought.  There  were  worse 
things  than  an  hour's  wait  in  the  fresh  air. 
I  snuggled  well  into  my  coat  and  actually 
began  to  feel  a  sort  of  lazy  contentment. 

There  was  a  cab  standing  close  to  the  plat- 
form. It  was  directly  under  an  arc-light  not 
more  than  ten  feet  from  where  I  sat.  I 
could  even  catch  a  faint  odor  of  stables  and 
wet  horsehair  that  came  from  the  vehicle  and 
the  horse  to  which  it  was  attached. 

He  was  a  gaunt  grey  gelding  turned  to 
mouse  color  by  the  melting  snow  which 
drifted  down  upon  his  unprotected  back. 
He  stood  there  moveless,  as  silent  as  the 
cab  he  drew,  as  silent  as  the  silent  falling 
snow.  He  seemed  to  dream.  ...  I  noticed 
a  peculiar  smoky  mottling  on  his  ewe  neck 
and  bony  withers. 

"Where  have  I  seen  a  horse  marked  like 
that  before?"  I  wondered  drowsily. 

Just  then  the  cab  horse  coughed  a  windy 
cough,   his   harness   rattling   as   he   did   so. 
Next  he  unclosed  his  sunken  near  eye  and 
rolled  it  at  me  hi  a  friendly  stare. 
287 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Good  evenin',  suh,"  he  said  in  a  deep  and 
gurgling  voice. 

I  was  curiously  unsurprised.  It  seemed 
quite  natural  to  be  addressed  by  a  cab  horse. 
For  some  reason  I  did  not  feel  that  the  ex- 
perience was  out  of  the  ordinary.  I  nodded 
to  him  and  returned  his  greeting. 

"Good  evening,"  I  said,  and  added  fatu- 
ously that  it  seemed  to  be  snowing. 

The  cab  horse  shook  himself  until  the 
moisture  sprayed  from  his  coat  and  harness, 
cocked  a  humorous  ear  in  my  direction  and  said 
with  a  rumbling  chuckle :  "I  have  observed  it." 

"Of  course,"  I  said  hastily,  and  there 
followed  a  silence  in  which  I  felt  vaguely 
uncomfortable  in  my  heavy  coat  and  won- 
dered why  he  had  no  blanket. 

He  seemed  to  read  my  thoughts. 

"There  was  a  time,  suh,"  he  said,  "and 
then  I  was  in  the  full  vigor  of  horsehood, 
when  an  hour  spent  without  coverin'  under 
meltin'  snow  would  have  been  not  only  a 
hardship  but  a  peril.  In  these  later  yeahs  I 
have  become  accustomed  to  a  somewhat 
288 


Old  Pastures 


different  station  in  life,  and  I  am  now  better 
able  both  mentally  and  physically  to  endure 
bodily  discomfort. 

"I  shall  reach  my  quatahs  at,  let  us  say, 
two  o'clock.  I  shall  seek  my  repose  on  a  bed 
of  sawdust  with  my  coat  as  full  of  moisture 
as  you  see  it  now.  There  may  be  a  suggestion 
of  stiffness  to-morrow,  but  nothin'  that  will 
prohibit  me  from  undertaken*  my  usual  duties. 
And  yet,  suh,  fifteen  yeahs  ago,  although 
wearin*  a  night  blanket  and  sleepin*  in  an 
abundance  of  rye  straw,  had  I  not  been 
scientifically  cooled  out  I  could  not  have 
paced  a  thirty  clip  without  great  effort  the 
folio  win'  mawnin'." 

I  looked  at  him  with  growing  interest. 

"Cooled  out!"  I  exclaimed.  "Thirty  clip! 
Were  you  equal  to  a  thirty  clip?" 

Once  more  I  heard  the  deep  rumble  of  his 
chuckle.  It  ended  in  a  fit  of  coughing  which 
shook  him  from  nostrils  to  tail  root. 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  he  said  with  dif- 
ficulty; "I  mentioned  a  thirty  clip  disparag- 
ingly. It  was  a  jog,  suh,  only  a  jog — in  those 
289 


The    Lucky  Seven 


days.    Are  you  by  way  of  being  a  hawse-man, 
suh?" 

"Somewhat,"  I  admitted. 

"Then  it  is  possible,"  he  said  with  some 
eagerness,  "that  you  have  visited  my  native 
state." 

"Kentucky,  isn't  it?"  I  inquired. 

A  limpid  glow  shone  for  a  moment  in  his 
eyes.  "I  was  foaled  six  miles  from  Lexington, 
suh,"  he  told  me  softly,  "along  the  Gawge- 
town  Pike." 

"I  know  that  country  well,"  I  said. 

"You  have  been  there  recently?"  he  asked. 

I  nodded.     "The  Trots,  this  year,"  I  said. 

"The  Trots!"  he  exclaimed.  Then  in  a  sort 
of  hushed  ecstasy  he  breathed  again :  "The 
Trots!" 

"You've  seen  the  Trots?"  I  asked. 

He  stared  away  through  the  snowflakes 
into  the  night.  Apparently  he  had  not  heard 
the  question.  At  last  he  shook  himself  as 
though  to  be  rid  of  his  thoughts,  champed 
reflectively  on  his  rusty  bit  and  favored  me 
with  a  slow  and  dreamy  look. 
290 


Old  Pastures 


"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen  the  Trots." 
Suddenly  his  head  went  up,  his  nostrils 
dilated,  his  eyes  blazed.  "I  raced  in  the 
free-for-all  pace  on  that  good  track,"  he  told 
me,  "in" — here  he  named  the  year — "with 
twenty  thousand  of  my  people  watchin'. 
My  knees  were  big  as  baskets  when  I  finished, 
I  had  cut  my  quatah  to  the  bone,  but  I  had 
kept  a  promise,  suh,  and  seen  a  dream  come 
true." 

"A  promise?"  I  said  curiously. 

"A  promise,"  he  repeated.  "It  was  a 
pussonal  mattah,  suh;  I  doubt  if  you  would 
find  it  interestin'." 

"Oh,  but  I  should,"  I  assured  him.  "I 
have  an  hour." 

The  cab  horse  looked  at  me  doubtfully  for 
a  moment.  "Very  well,"  he  said.  "If  I 
seem  garrulous  you  must  blame  yourself, 
suh.  I  have  reached  the  time  in  life  when 
I  may  be  suspected  of  that  weakness."  He 
paused,  tossed  his  head  stiffly  to  relieve  his 
neck  of  check  cramp  and  shifted  his  weight 
to  his  off  rear  leg.  "On  the  day  I  was  foaled," 
291 


The  Lucky  Seven 


he  began,  "my  dam  had  five  smooth-goin' 
trottahs  in  the  list.  Then  I  came  into  the 
world  with  a  strong  suggestion  of  curb  and 
my  off  fore  toe  settin'  in  quite  noticeably. 

"There  were  fohty  good  foals  in  pastuh 
that  yeah,  and  a  bed-legged  one  was  pah- 
ticularly  noticeable  among  them.  My  mother 
was  a  proud  mayeh,  and  the  condolences  of 
the  other  matrons  were  distasteful  to  her. 
For  this  reason  she  took  to  grazin'  by  herself 
and  I  seldom  joined  in  games  and  capahs  with 
the  other  foals.  When  she  had  finished 
grazin*  my  mother's  favorite  spot  was  be- 
neath a  sassafras  tree  close  to  the  white  boa'd 
fence  along  the  Gawgetown  Pike.  Foh  hours 
we  would  stand  there  together  watchin'  the 
pike.  Along  that  pike,  suh,  we  could  see 
Kentucky's  best — both  horse  and  man — go 

by. 

"I  can  close  my  eyes  and  see  it  now.  I 
can  rest  my  chin  on  the  top  boa'd  of  the  fence 
and  see  my  people — my  people,  suh — drivin' 
in  to  Lexington  or  back.  You  have  seen  it 
lately— the  Gawgetown  Pike?" 
292 


Old  Pastures 


"Three  weeks  ago,"  I  said. 

"Three  weeks  ago,"  he  repeated.  "Tell  me, 
suh,  is  it  just  the  same?  Do  the  mules  poke 
along,  their  ears  a-flappin',  with  cohn  and 
hemp  and  tobacco?  Do  they  lead  the  runners 
past,  mincin'  and  fiddlin'  under  their  blankets? 
Do  the  lovers  drive  by  talkin'  low  and  sweet 
when  the  pike's  all  white  in  the  moonlight? 
Is  it  like  that — still?  But  I  must  get  on, 
suh,  I  must  get  on.  You  have  an  hour,  you 
said. 

"On  the  east  side  of  our  pastuh  was  a  stone 
bahn  with  a  paddock  leadin'  down  to  the 
pike.  The  main  drive  separated  the  pastuh 
from  this  paddock,  but  I  had  noticed  an  old 
brown  stallion  in  the  paddock  who  sometimes 
wandered  down  and  looked  out  over  the  pike. 
He  had  never  noticed  my  mother  or  me, 
never  looked  in  our  direction,  but  she 
seemed  nervous  and  ill  at  ease  when  he  was 
near. 

"One  day  some  gentlemen  came  drivin' 
by.  When  they  saw  the  old  brown  stallion 
standin'  there  each  man  took  off  his  hat.  I 
293 


The  Lucky  Seven 


was  astonished  by  this  and  asked  my  mother 
what  it  meant.  'Why  do  men  bow  to  that 
old  hawse  like  that?'  I  asked. 

"My  mother  looked  across  the  drive  and 
lowered  her  voice.  'Because,'  she  said,  *he 
is  very  old  and  very  famous.' 

'  'What  makes  him  famous,  mammy?'  I 
asked. 

"  'Hush,'  said  my  mother,  'you  wouldn't 
understand.' 

"From  then  on  I  had  a  coltish  curiosity 
about  the  old  brown  stallion.  I  hoped  some 
day  he'd  tell  me  how  to  grow  famous  and  have 
men  bow  to  me.  But  weeks  went  by  and  he 
never  seemed  to  see  me. 

"Then  one  day  some  hawses  were  led  down 
the  drive  under  blankets.  As  they  went 
through  the  gates  my  mother  nickered  to  one 
of  them  and  he  replied. 

'  'Good  luck,  son,'  my  mother  called  after 
him.  'Remembah,  whatever  happens,  stay 
on  the  trot.' 

"  'Yes,   ma-am,'   he  called   back   to  her. 
'I've  only  made  two  breaks  this  yeah.' 
294 


Old  Pastures 


"My  mother  watched  those  hawses,  suh, 
until  she  could  no  longer  see  them. 

"  'That  was  yoh  half  brother,'  she  said  to 
me.  'He  is  goin'  away  to  the  races.' 

'  'When  shall  I  go  to  the  races,  mammy?' 
I  asked. 

"My  mother  glanced  at  my  crooked  legs 
and  sighed. 

"  'Yo'  duties  will  lie  elsewhere,  my  child,' 
she  said. 

"At  this  I  lost  my  tempah  and  began  to 
kick  the  fence.  My  small  hoofs  set  up  such 
a  clattah  on  the  broad  boa'ds  that  the  old 
stallion,  who  was  standin'  just  across  the  drive, 
raised  his  head  and  looked  over  at  me. 

"  'Hoity-toity!'  he  said. 

"I  was  too  enraged  to  notice  him  just  then. 
'I  will  go  to  the  races!'  I  squealed,  a-bangin' 
away  at  the  fence. 

"  'And  why  shouldn't  he  go,  madam?' 
said  the  old  stallion  to  my  mother. 

"  'Because,  suh,'  faltered  my  mother,  'he 
has  bad  legs,  both  in  front  and  behind.' 

"The  old  stallion  looked  at  me  foh  a  mo- 
295 


The  Lucky  Seven 


ment  while  I  continued  to  pelt  away  at  the 
fence. 

''  'Stop  those  didos  and  listen  to  me,  young 
man,'  he  said,  and  my  depo'tment  improved 
instantah. 

"  'Do  you  want  to  race  some  day?'  he  asked 
me. 

"  'Yes,  suh,  if  you  please,  suh,'  I  answered. 

"'Well,  keep  a-tryin','  he  said.  'Keep 
a-tryin'.  It's  moh  his  heart  than  his  legs  that 
makes  a  race  hawse.  Just  keep  a-tryin'. 
Never  discourage  the  young,'  he  said  to  my 
mother.  'Take  him  away  now,  madam — 
he  is  disturbin'  my  thoughts.' 

"'Who  is  that  old  fossil?'  I  asked  my 
mother,  when  she  had  led  me  further  down 
the  fence. 

"My  mother  stared  in  horror  at  me  for  a 
moment,  suh,  and  then  laid  back  her  ears. 

"  'That  is  yoh  grandsire,  you  impertinent 
whippah-snappah,'  she  said,  'and  his  name  is 
Gawge  Wilkes.' 

"When  I  folded  my  crooked  legs  under  me 
that  night  I  remembered  what  my  grandsire 
296 


Old  Pastures 


had  said.  Befoh  I  went  to  sleep  I  repeated 
it  aloud.  'Keep  a-tryin'!  Keep  a-tryin'!' 
I  said.  I  fell  asleep  mumblin'  those  words 
and  I  awoke  next  mawnin'  determined  to 
bear  them  in  mind.  From  that  day  to  this, 
suh,  they  have  been  my  creed.  Although  at 
times  I  have  doubted  their  potency,  I  have 
never  quite  despaired.  It  cost  you  a  dollah 
to  attend  the  Trots,  did  it  not,  suh?"  He 
paused  inquiringly. 

"No,"  I  said  sadly.  "It  was  more  than 
that." 

The  cab  horse  chuckled.  "The  fohtunes 
of  war,  suh,"  he  said.  "But  you  need  not 
have  wagered  unless  you  saw  fit  to  do  so. 
You  could  have  seen  the  Trots  foh  a  dollah 
each  day." 

I  nodded. 

"It  cost  me,"  said  the  cab  horse,  "five 
yeahs  of  toil,  five  yeahs  of  struggle.  It  was 
not  expected  that  I  would  ever  race.  It  was 
hoped  that  I  could  take  a  standard  record, 
that  was  all.  But  every  day  of  those  five 
yeahs  I  kep'  a-tryin';  and  now  with  the  fuller 
297 


The  Lucky  Seven 


knowledge  that  has  come  to  me  I  know  that 
the  hawse  who  keeps  a-tryin'  is  a  hard  hawse 
to  beat. 

"My  trainin'  began  on  the  farm  track  when 
I  was  a  three-year-old.  My  gait  was  nothin* 
in  pahticulah,  but  because  my  mother  was  a 
dam  of  trottahs  they  trained  me  at  the  trot. 
I  wore  every  boot  in  the  catalogue  and  hit 
them  all  at  some  place  in  the  mile.  Never 
a  stride  did  I  take  that  was  not  labored,  never 
a  mile  did  I  go  that  did  not  seem  like  three. 
But  always,  suh,  always,  I  tried.  Foh  every 
foot  of  every  mile  I  tried,  with  the  sweat 
runnin*  over  my  hoofs.  And  what  was 
hardest  to  bear  was,  the  easy  way  good- 
gaited  colts  slipped  past  me. 

"There  was  one  black  pacer,  risin5  four, 
whose  wuck-out  days  matched  mine.  He 
was  sired  by  that  great  hawse  Director,  and 
frequently  alluded  to  the  fact;  but  if  you 
asked  him  who  his  grandam  was  he  changed 
the  subject.  He  had  a  reachin',  sneakin', 
oily  gait  and  a  heart  as  black  as  his  hide. 
Whenever  he  caught  me  strugglin'  home  I 
298 


Old  Pastures 


got  a  scornful  word  flung  back  from  the  wind 
of  his  passin'.  I  grew  to  hate  him  foh  the 
trash  he  was,  and  in  my  dreams  I  beat  him; 
but  mawnin'  found  me  eatin'  dust  and  tryin' — 
only  tryin'. 

"One  day,  when  I  had  lost  all  hope  and 
was  the  joke  of  the  fahm,  the  silent  man  come 
up  from  Tennessee  and  every  colt  on  the  place 
was  stepped  an  eighth  with  him  a-watchin'. 
I  had  never  heard  of  him  at  that  time,  suh, 
but  from  the  way  the  niggahs  looked  at  him 
and  rolled  their  eyes  I  felt  ashamed,  when  my 
turn  came,  to  hip  and  hop  and  jiggle  past  him. 

"When  it  was  over  I  tried  to  shy  through 
the  gate  and  so  get  quickly  to  my  stall,  but 
our  head  trainer,  who  had  driven  me,  pulled 
me  round  and  drove  me  back  to  where  the 
silent  man  was  standin'. 

"  Top,'  said  our  trainer,  'we'd  like  to  give 
this  colt  a  mark.  What's  wrong  with  him?' 

"The  silent  man  was  flickin'  at  the  track 
with  a  whip.  He  never  looked  up,  just 
watched  the  marks  the  whiplash  was  makin' 
in  the  dust. 

299 


The  Lucky  Seven 


'  'He  wants  to  pace,'  he  said,  and  those 
words  made  a  racehawse.  Those  words  and 
the  creed,  suh;  those  words  and  the  creed. 

"  Tace!'  said  our  trainer.  'His  dam's  old 
May  Day.  He's  got  no  license  to  pace.' 

"The  silent  man  kep'  on  a-flickin'  at  the 
track. 

"  'Well,  suit  yohself,  dawg-gone  it,'  he  said. 
'He'll  pace,  James — or  fall  down.' 

"Next  day  they  knocked  my  toe  weights 
off  and  put  moh  weight  behind,  and  three 
weeks  later,  suh,  I  paced  a  mile  in  twenty- 
eight  and  was  mentioned  in  a  complimentary 
manner  by  the  Lexington  Leader.  I  was  still 
rough  gaited  even  on  the  pace,  and  at  top 
speed  I  hit  my  knees;  but  now  by  tryin', 
always  tryin',  a  little  power  was  added  to  my 
stroke  each  day,  a  little  hope  grew  slowly  in 
my  breast. 

"And  then  one  mawnin'  the  black  colt  by 
Director  caught  me  at  the  eighth  pole  and 
turned  out  to  go  by.  I  have  fought  out 
heats  by  inches  in  my  day,  suh,  but  never 
did  I  do  moh  than  from  that  eighth  pole 
300 


Old  Pastures 


home.  The  black  colt  was  only  a  length  in 
front  when  we  passed  under  the  wire. 

"He  laughed  a  sneerin',  irritatin*  sawt  of 
laugh  he  had  while  we  were  joggin*  back. 
'You'll  step  on  the  back  of  yoh  neck  some 
day,'  he  said,  'and  break  it.' 

"I  had  hit  my  knees  so  hard  that  they  were 
puffed  already  and  both  my  quatah  boots 
were  cut  to  ribbons. 

"  Til  step  on  yoh  yellow  heart  some  day,' 
I  said,  'and  break  it.'  I  spoke  in  the  heat 
of  youthful  passion — an  ill-considered  boast. 
He  had  a  dazzlin'  flight  of  speed,  and  who  was 
I  to  promise  him  a  beatin'? 

"He  was  shipped  away  shawtly  after  that 
and  word  came  back  that  he  was  doin'  well, 
but  something  told  me  he  was  weak  inside. 
A  racin'  grandam  comes  in  handy  at  the 
pinch,  suh — yes,  and  fo'  moh  like  her. 

"I  stayed  behind  and  wucked  the  summer 
through.  Foh  days  I  hung  at  twenty-seven, 
then  cut  a  second  off  and  needed  just  one 
second  moh  to  be  a  standard  pacer.  Lawd 
help  us,  how  I  tried,  suh !  A  week,  two  weeks 
301 


The  Lucky  Seven 


went  by.  Then  one  fine  day  the  fahm  track 
dried  out  good  and  fast  and  I  came  home  in 
twenty-three,  with  the  trainer  grinnin'  and 
my  swipe  a-cuttin'  capahs  at  the  wire. 

"They  sent  me  to  a  breeders'  meetin*  then 
at  Lexington.  There  weren't  two  hundred 
people  in  the  stands  that  day,  and  on  the 
track  was  Rag  and  Tag  and  Bobtail,  cripples, 
failures,  not  fit  to  race,  with  bands  a-playin' 
and  thousands  lookin*  on —  But  it  was 
Lexington. 

"I  made  a  clumsy  effort  against  time — a 
mile  in  twenty — and  my  mother  had  another 
in  the  list. 

"That  night  I  stood  and  dreamed,  a-lookin' 
out  the  window  of  my  stall  at  the  big  still 
track  and  the  moon  and  the  grandstand  and 
the  stables.  A  gamecock  crowed.  A  houn' 
dawg  bayed.  And  then  the  stand  filled  up 
with  misty  shapes.  I  thought  I  saw  my 
people,  suh,  by  thousands.  They'd  come 
along  the  pikes  as  still  as  shadows. 

"Then,  suh,  I  saw  a  field  of  hawses  scorin' 
foh  the  word.  They  got  away,  a  black  hawse 
302 


Old  Pastures 


with  a  sneakin',  oily  stride  a  length  in  front, 
and  round  the  track  they  swept  without  a 
sound. 

"The  black  hawse  led  clear  down  the 
stretch  and  then  a  gray  hawse  caught  him 
and  beat  him  by  a  head.  The  grey  hawse, 
suh,  was  me. 

"I  stood  and  sweat  and  trembled  foh  an 
hour  a-lookin*  out  that  window.  When 
mawnin'  came  they  drove  me  home  and 
turned  me  out  again.  A  grey  colt,  suh, 
with  crooked  legs  and  visions  in  his  head. 

"Next  spring  my  gait  became  a  trifle 
smoother.  By  June  I  pounded  out  a  mile  in 
fohteen  flat,  and  though  my  eyes  were  poppin' 
from  my  head,  suh,  when  I  finished,  it  got 
me  to  the  races. 

"When  that  yeah  closed  I'd  come  to 
my  full  speed;  not  the  extreme  flight  that 
smoother-goin'  hawses  own  foh  some  place 
in  the  mile,  but  what  I  had  I  gave  from  wire 
to  wire,  and  I  have  beaten,  in  my  time, 
some  high-class  pacers,  suh. 

"So  foh  five  yeahs,  on  fifty  different  tracks, 
303 


The  Lucky  Seven 


I  bore  the  creed  in  mind.  And  then  one 
autumn  day,  as  I  have  told  you,  suh,  I 
jogged  out  when  they  called  the  free-foh-all 
at  Lexington. 

"That  day,  that  day,  suh!  How  it  all 
comes  back,  the  band  a-playin'  and  a  blue 
Kentucky  sky  a-smilin'  down  on  me  and 
mine — that's  how  it  seemed  to  me — on  me 
and  mine;  foh  one  in  every  five  in  that  big 
stand  had  driven  in  along  the  Gawgetown 
Pike. 

"I  had  scored  past  the  grandstand  and  was 
turnin'  to  jog  back  when  one  of  the  starters 
in  the  free-foh-all  came  scorin'  down  close  to 
the  pole.  He  was  a  black  hawse,  low-headed, 
with  a  reachin',  oily  stride— and  I  fohgot  the 
music  and  the  crowds. 

"He  recognized  me  when  we  were  turnin' 
foh  the  word  and  spoke  to  me  right  friendly. 

"  'Glad  to  see  you,  mighty  glad,'  he  said. 
'Ain't  you  flyin'  high  these  days?'  He 
laughed  his  same  old  irritatin'  laugh,  and  I  re- 
membered how  I  used  to  hate  him  when  he'd 
catch  me  flounderin'  in  the  f ahm  track  stretch. 
304 


Old  Pastures 


"He  won  the  first  heat  by  a  length,  a  Brown 
Hal  mayeh  was  second,  I  was  third.  I  paced  the 
mile  at  my  best  clip  and  never  reached  them. 

"The  black  hawse  won  the  next  heat  by  a 
length  again  and  I  was  second.  I'd  paced 
my  heart  clean  out  from  wire  to  wire;  but 
he  was  fast,  suh,  he  was  mighty  fast. 

"Then  for  the  third  time  we  scored  down 
and  went  away;  but  those  two  heats  had 
dulled  him  some,  suh,  and  at  the  half  I 
lapped  his  sulky  wheel.  He  seemed  to  move 
along  without  an  effort,  though,  and  I  was 
pacin'  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind.  I  felt,  I 
could  not  see,  his  head  come  back  to  mine. 
By  inches,  suh,  by  inches  it  was  comin* 
back.  ...  I  did  not  know  when  we  had 
passed  the  wire.  I  did  not  know  who  won 
the  heat.  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  hit 
my  knees  or  cut  my  quatah,  suh —  The 
world  turned  black. 

"Then  presently  the  call  boy  came  to  the 
paddock  and  called  the  first  three  names, 
and  people  gathered  at  my  stall,  suh,  foh  I 
had  won  the  heat. 

305 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"Foh  one  moh  heat  the  black  hawse  had 
his  speed,  suh.  Foh  one  moh  heat  it  took 
my  all  to  win,  but  win  I  did,  although  once 
moh  I  did  not  know  what  happened  until 
the  call  boy  came  and  called  the  names. 

"Then  in  the  fifth  and  final  heat,  with 
twenty  thousand  of  my  people  lookin'  on, 
suh,  I  kept  the  promise  I  had  made  the 
black  hawse  long  befoh,  and  broke  his  heart. 

"We  went  the  first  half  of  the  mile  in  six 
and  then  his  eyes  began  to  roll.  I  came  the 
last  half  in  a  minute  flat,  pushed  out  by  the 
Brown  Hal  mayeh,  who  had  been  layin'  up. 
The  black  hawse  finished — last. 

"And  so,  suh,"  said  the  cab  horse  in  con- 
clusion, "I  saw  my  dream  come  true.  Do 
you  believe" — he  was  stricken  with  a  fit  of 
coughing — "in  dreams?"  he  managed  to  say. 

"Why,  no,"  I  said  doubtfully;  "I  can't 
say  that  I  do.  Do  you  have  them  often?" 

The  cab  horse  gazed  at  me  steadily  for  a 

moment.      "Dreams,"    he   said,    "belong    to 

youth.     They  fled,  suh,  long  ago.     And  yet 

a  sawt  of  day-dream  still  remains,  a  sawt  of 

306 


Old  Pastures 


faith,  a  sawt  of  hope.  A  wild,  a  preposterous 
hope." 

"Hope?"  I  inquired. 

"I  cherish  the  hope,"  said  the  cab  horse, 
"that  some  day  I  will  return  to  the  land  from 
which  I  sprang.  I  will  see  the  bluegrass, 
ankle  deep,  grey  and  crisp  with  dew.  I  will 
hear  the  brood  mayehs  callin'  to  the  little, 
little  colts,  and  the  stallions  stamp  and 
holler  in  the  paddocks.  The  little  niggahs  will 
whistle  and  shuffle  and  sing  in  the  sunshine. 
The  old  niggahs  will  moan  and  croon  when  the 
moon  comes  up  over  the  big  black  bahns. 
And  I  can  pick  a  mouthful  now  and  then — 
right  close  to  the  fence,  suh,  right  close  to 
the  fence — along  the  Gawgetown  Pike." 

The  gurgling  voice  died  away  in  a  huge, 
moist  sigh.  Its  owner  gazed  at  the  ground 
before  him,  his  ancient  head  sank  lower,  his 
knees  seemed  to  sag  with  his  weight. 

Some  one  began  to  shake  me,  none  too 
gently,  while  requesting  me  to  let  him  have 
a  truck. 

"Truck?"  I  said  thickly.  "What  truck?" 
307 


The  Lucky  Seven 


"You're  settin'  on  it,"  came  a  bellow  in 
my  ear,  and  I  found  myself  gazing  into  the 
countenance  of  a  red-whiskered  man  who  was 
peering  at  me  from  below  the  visor  of  an 
official-looking  cap. 

"Oh,  excuse  me,"  I  said.    "I  was  thinking." 

The  red-whiskered  man  grinned. 

"You  was  snorin',"  he  said. 

"I  never  snore,"  I  said  coldly,  giving  him 
his  truck. 

I  devoted  the  next  five  minutes  to  staring 
at  the  cab  horse  standing  under  _the  arc- 
light  in  the  falling  snow.  He  stood  there 
moveless,  as  silent  as  the  cab  he  drew,  as 
silent  as  the  silent,  falling  snow.  He  seemed 
to  dream.  .  .  . 

"Of  course  he  didn't  talk,"  I  decided 
finally.  "It's  simple  enough — I  was  asleep." 

I  heard  the  whistle  of  the  New  York 
express  a  moment  later,  and  presently  the 
track  rails  turned  to  molten  silver  under  its 
flaming  eye. 

While  the  porter  examined  my  berth  check 
I  continued  to  stare  at  the  cab  horse.  I 
308 


Old  Pastures 


could  not  take  my  eyes  from  the  smoky 
mottling  on  his  neck  and  withers.  Where,  oh 
where,  had  I  seen  that  marking  before? 
Just  as  the  train  began  to  move  it  flashed  over 
me.  I  had  a  vision  of  a  wildly  happy  child,  his 
cheeks  flaming,  his  small  fists  clenched  as  he 
watched  a  lean  grey  head  creep  past  a  black 
one  to  the  tune  of  drumming  hoofs. 

"Why,  I  was  there!5'  I  burst  out.  "I  saw 
him  do  it!" 

I  tore  my  bag  from  the  astonished  porter 
and  leaped,  almost  fell,  to  the  station  plat- 
form of  Xenia,  Ohio. 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning  I  sent  a  tele- 
gram. It  was  addressed  to  Colonel  Jack 
Menifee,  Hill  and  Dale  Farm,  Lexington, 
Kentucky.  It  read: 

Am  shipping  you  by  express  one  grey  gelding. 
Please  turn  him  out  in  east  meadow  along  the 

Georgetown  Pike. 

(i) 

THE  END 


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